


Featherling

by RoAnshi



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Mild Language, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoAnshi/pseuds/RoAnshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While serving his sentence on Midgard, Loki unexpectedly finds himself in a "family way" - sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a post-Avengers movie continuity that I, as a "Loki Redemptionist", have been creating. Unfortunately, the origin story "Essence", which sets everything up, is far from being complete. This story, however, told me it wanted to be written (and posted) now. To avoid future redundancy in this story, as well as to not spoil the origin story, I have not attempted to synopsize all the events which led up to the current scenario. Please know and accept the following:
> 
> Timeline: This takes place about two and a half years post the events shown in "The Avengers."  
> Premise: In order to avoid the extremity of Asgardian justice, Loki is back on Earth (against his will) where, because of a surprisingly selfless gesture, he is "allowed" to serve his sentence as a SHIELD consultant. His powers are greatly suppressed, and his actions are monitored and sometimes controlled by a direct link to JARVIS and the SHIELD computer system. "Resentful" doesn't even begin to cover how Loki feels about this. Still, it's better than what the Allfather had planned for him on Asgard, and if he behaves himself, he might eventually earn his parole.
> 
> This is one of the "lighthearted" stories in my universe--as long as your definition of lighthearted includes angst, broken familial relationships, and generous servings of emo tears. What? Yours doesn't? Then why are you reading Loki redemption fic?
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Loki waited for two full days before finally accepting that the burning sensation below his breastbone was not a relic of “Taco Tuesday” at Stark Tower, especially since he hadn’t even touched the nasty things. The smell alone had been enough to turn his stomach; however, 48 hours alternating between several antacids had not improved how he felt.

He rubbed the area, for the tenth time that day, and again felt that small spongy spot within his viscera, instead of the hollow that should have been there.

He wondered how it could possibly have happened, as he was diligently practicing celibacy on Midgard—not that he had found anyone or anything remotely tempting him toward pleasures of the flesh in this realm.  Yes, some of the letters sent to the Tower from women—and not a few men—who had completely forgiven his role in the Great Chitauri Invasion of New York City sounded on the surface interesting in their suggestions of what they would like to have him do to their bodies, but truth be told, they sort of creeped him out. (And in his defense, those requests still would have creeped him out those two years back.  Maybe.)

He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushed through his wet hair with that special detangling comb Romanoff, with a withering glare, had given him after he had helped himself to hers a few too many times.  He deftly finished styling it via both Midgardian “product” and magic, then shook his head, and sighed to himself. “By all the Gods of all the Realms, not again.”

* * *

“Good afternoon, everyone.”  JARVIS’ voice suddenly spoke out in every occupied room of the Tower.  “It is one-fifty-five in the afternoon.  May I remind you that Loki has called a Team Conference for two p.m. in the Level Three Conference Room.  Your punctuality will be appreciated.”

Steve Rogers was, of course, already there and waiting. Loki had not given him a clue about the subject of the conference, nor had he mentioned needing any services or amenities taken care of.  Most of the other Avengers at least arranged for coffee and maybe some cookies or cupcakes, or a bowl of fruit if one of the team was feeling fat that week (usually Bruce; never Natasha).  Maybe Steve should have set up some coffee himself, plus called one of Tony’s caterers to send over a tray of, well, croissants or chocolates or fondue or _something._

His lips compressed as he reminded himself that the job description for Leader of the Avengers did not include a bullet point for “Ensure appropriate refreshments are available when team is gathered.”  Instead, he took a seat, not at the formal conference table but settling himself on the arm of the couch against the near wall.  Maybe he should have pulled the couch and the easy chairs into a group circle….?

Everyone had managed to be on-site today, as well.  That almost never happened unless it was Director Fury demanding it.  They drifted into the room in those last few minutes before the start time: Thor first, who shrugged an eloquent “I dunno either” in response to Steve’s questioning glance; Bruce with Clint, and they were laughing, which was always a good sign; Natasha, her hair severely pulled back and wearing workout clothes that were dripping wet, which was not always a good sign; and then finally, a minute before, Tony, smelling like his engineering lab walked through the door with him.

They were all staring at Steve, like this was his fault, like they always did with anything to do with Loki since he was the only one Loki really got along with.  He cleared his throat.  “Everyone sit where you want, I guess.  Loki didn’t provide an, um, agenda or anything, so… your guess is as good as mine what this is about.”  Without too much consideration, everyone plunked into the easy chairs or onto the couch, slouching as disrespectfully as possible – Tony even propped up his feet on one of the rigid conference chairs—and looked expectantly at the door.

Loki entered the Conference Room at exactly 1:59:55, used those five seconds to look over everyone—not a hint of eye contact, just a headcount—then perversely placed himself at the head of the _formal_ conference table, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to read.

“I, Loki—” he paused where he should have stated a last name, then started over.  “I, Loki, in cooperation with the Agreement between myself as Temporary Contract Worker to SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative in the Specialty Field of Magic As It Correlates With Science and Technology, have convened a Team Conference as required by Article 12, Covenant 16 of the aforementioned Agreement—”

“Get on with it, Loki,” Tony interrupted.  There was a soldering iron in his hand, its tip still smoldering; that explained the smell of zinc and ozone around him. “Do we really need another world-conquering speech?”

Steve really wished he had brewed that pot of coffee.

Loki—as usual—ignored him.  “—requiring that any Team Member experiencing a change in personal physical status call a Conference in which to announce said change in status to the Team.”

He looked away from the paper then, to one wall, to the opposite wall, then up at the ceiling, before he dragged his eyes back, this time at least looking in the direction of the Avengers if not—still—meeting their eyes.

Loki’s voice pitched to a low whisper, one that commanded full attention, but Steve didn’t get the impression that it was manipulative; no, it was more like the only way Loki could get the words out at all. “In that manner, I wish to announce that I am with child.  Neither the duration nor the outcome of my… pregnancy is known to me, as this was not a planned event.”  He cleared his throat, steadying himself, and went on in a marginally louder tone.  “In cooperation with the terms of my contract, I will schedule additional conferences with this Team in order to update whenever necessary.  That is all.”

When Thor, wide-eyed, tried to speak—ha-ha, _Uncle_ Thor, Steve’s brain helpfully provided him with the familial relationship–Loki’s stance went taut, and suddenly he seemed to loom, thrusting out one hand and instantly turning eerie and intimidating, in a Stuttgart-kind-of-way.

“I wish not to speak further of this at this time.”  He spun on his heels—all he was missing was the cyclonic swirl of a greatcoat around his legs—and disappeared so quickly that Steve had to wonder if the last bit of the departure had been accomplished by teleportation.

Silence in the room, for a long while the whirr of the clean green energy system powering the Tower the only sound.

“Well,” Tony finally coughed uncomfortably, “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting _that,_ ” and that set everyone off in a most amazing chorus of swear words coupled with stunned expressions of disbelief and adamant headshaking.  “How do you _even_ …?”

Steve really wished he had set out a big bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

***

“Brother.”

Loki, annoyed at being interrupted—and hadn’t Thor agreed to keep out of Loki’s Authorized Projects and Design Room, anyway?—barely spared him a glance over his shoulder before continuing with his project.  Fabric manipulation was not his forte, but what was the point of life but to learn?  (Well, and to conquer other realms of course, but that presently was out of the question, impending maternity or not.)

“I am busy,” he responded coolly.  “Please speak with me another time.”

“But… brother.  _Loki_.”  Thor’s voice was oddly intense.  “How did you come to be—it has been _centuries_ since the last time, and then you knew how and when… but this?”

Loki swiveled his work chair around.  The expression on Thor’s face matched his voice; and Loki wondered as he did multiple times daily not how Thor still managed to care, but _how much_. “You think _you_ are surprised?” he snapped.  “Imagine my state of mind when I realized that despite every reasonable effort upon this world, I was carrying—somehow—yet another youngling.  It was, needless to say, disconcerting.”  He turned his attention back to the length of fabric he worked with and did his best to tune Thor out, concentrating instead on the delicate pattern of tiny golden stitches he worked into its surface with a needle and fine thread.

Yet Thor remained where he was, practically radiating concern, and Loki was ready to snap at him again, this time to _begone_ , or somesuch other strong verb designed to send him packing.  But to his surprise one of his brother’s large hands settled with an atypical gentleness on his shoulder and gave him what was no doubt meant to be a reassuring squeeze, if it hadn’t nearly bent his collarbone.

“Were you…” and Thor’s low voice went ragged at the inquiry, “taken advantage of, brother?  Violated, and you wish no one to know?”

“’Violated’”?  Just a little part of Loki’s self-control frayed, and he let slip a near-manic giggle.  “’Taken _advantage_ of?’  What think you of me?”  He tried to push away his brother’s hand, but Thor’s grasp remained steadfast and supportive. 

At such constancy, Loki could only tip his head back and allow himself to meet his brother’s intense gaze.  “As if anyone could, Thor,” he said steadily.  “As if anyone might even _try_.  They would be filleted—and that is if I were feeling kindly disposed that day--before they laid one hand on my… well,” and he shook his head with disbelief at all of it,  “wherever they were planning to enter in order to impregnate me.”

Thor’s grip relaxed, relief flooding those sincere blue eyes, and Loki took advantage of the moment to—at least not altogether rudely--finally shove Thor’s hand away.  His brother barely seemed to notice the anti-fraternal gesture.  “So you truly do not know how you came by this condition, Loki?”

“I wish I did.”  Loki dismissed him then by turning back to his work table.  He had to search for his needle, and feared it had fallen to the floor and he would only find it two days later by burying it in a toe. But finally he caught the glint of silver attached to gold and he took it up again, continuing his delicate stitchery.  The motif on the dark fabric was coming along quite well, he thought with a contemplative nod.

Yet Thor was _still there,_ mercy upon them both, in no mood to be dissuaded by half-answers, and still full of his own questions.  “Are you certain that you are with child?  Perhaps…”  Thor took a deep breath as if he feared broaching the subject.  “It couldn’t be a Midgardian illness that mimics the state of maternity in one of your… lineage, could it?”

Loki smiled wryly and shook his head.  “Oh, I am very certain, Thor.”  And his hand rubbed again at the spot below his breastbone, harder today, and larger.  He could feel… _life_ in there now, nascent and fluttering like a flame teased by a breeze, still so very fragile, its survival yet unsure.

But he was equally certain that he would do anything to guard that which grew within him.

Loki focused closely on his fabric, on the proper working of the needle and how it carried the thread that wove his spell of protection; and he suddenly—for that moment only—did not mind Thor’s presence.  “All will be well,” he said quietly, confirming the pulse within him.  “For despite my circumstances, I too am well, and you needn’t worry.  In fact,” and he loosed a hand from the fabric to make a grand gesture, a royal fiat, “I _command_ you not to worry.  Now be on your way.  Please,” he remembered to add, even as his mouth twisted a bit on the word. 

And at last a smile blossomed on Thor’s face, all sunlight and gold, and he loosed a hearty laugh as he finally headed for the door.  “Ah, brother—it will be grand to be an uncle to one of your children again.”

* * *

Steve consulted his notebook yet again before he continued with the difficult one-on-one change-of-status conversation he was having with Loki. “Well, of course, effective immediately we’ll take you off the battle roster—”

“--as if you let me fight at all,” Loki spat an interruption, “unless the threat is too great for the six mighty Avengers, and you need a force from Outside to step in and assist, and still SHIELD will not let JARVIS unlock more than thirty percent of my magic at any time no matter what circumstance—”

So that incident with Whirlwind a month back was still grating on him, even though Steve personally felt that even if they’d had all of Loki’s formidable magic available, they still would nearly have had their backsides handed to them if Bruce hadn’t finally shown up at the penultimate moment and “suited up” to save them all to fight another day.  Plus, it being Loki’s turn to be heaved through a plate-glass window by one of the bad guys—and there being nothing he could do about it, lightly armed as he was—probably had a lot to do with how the offense lingered.  Instead, Steve answered patiently, “You can appeal that again in three more months, Loki.  And that’s not what this conversation is about.”

Loki set his mouth.  Steve knew he was displeased with his circumstances, but that was an everyday thing and everyone was used to Loki going off about the unfairness of his imprisonment and servitude, but there was something more to it this time.

Loki’s hand drifted from where it clenched the arm of the couch, to rest high across his belly; and in another moment, he had started absently massaging the area.  Although since his surprise announcement two days before he had not said another public word to anyone about his impending bundle of joy, from his body language alone it was obvious to everyone exactly where he was “carrying.”

Steve leaned in a little.  “You feel okay today?”  
  
“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” Loki bit out, his hand falling self-consciously to his lap.  “You would think me another weak and simpering Midgardian wench, incapable of doing more than lying upon her couch throughout her confinement.”

“Hey,” Steve said easily, “Midgardian wenches weren’t like that even in _my_ day.”  He remembered seeing newsreel images of women with more belly than they should have had, daring to climb ladders and sink rivets into the warplanes people like him would soon pilot.  Not to mention all the mothers-to-be he personally saw bringing their contributions to the scrap metal drives, selling bonds, and tilling their Victory Gardens.  “What books have you been reading? ‘Gone with the Wind’, maybe?”

Loki snorted and looked away, long fingers twitching nervously.  Oh-so-casually, he threaded those fingers together, then, equally-casually, rested those laced hands on his abdomen where they began a slow creep upward.  

Steve decided, kindly, not to notice, and went on. “I see you’ve skipped your Starbucks these past couple of days—”

“Are we _still_ not done?”  Loki shifted in a way that Steve recognized, one that said, “I am dangerously close to reaching my limit with all of this”—and “dangerously” was the appropriate adjective for the circumstances.

Steve held his ground. “No, and I’m sorry, but SHIELD requires an initial field health assessment when any of its personnel reports a pregnancy.”  Steve felt himself flush, not from embarrassment so much as the absurdity of having to conduct this conversation.  “I’m trying to make this easy on both of us, okay?  So, do you have concerns about the health of the baby?”

“I have concerns about _everything_ relating to ‘the baby.’”  Loki’s voice rose.  “I do not know its form yet.  Is it human? Jotun?  Bound to my current biological form and thus Aesir?  What does the unknown father bring to this?  I know nothing, so I must act as if everything I do, everything I ingest is a potential threat.  I read a pregnancy blog—” and now, amazingly, it was Loki’s turn to flush, right to the tips of his ears, and Steve thought that was one of the funniest things he had ever seen and had to fake a cough into his hand to mask his laugh—“where I found that caffeine could cause harm to a growing fetus, thus I made a decision to abstain until I have… delivered.”

“No wonder you’re so cranky.” Steve gently cuffed him on the biceps, hoping that would not earn him some sort of punishment in return.  Loki, when miffed, could deal out some very effective short-term curses and spells that were treble whatever offense he felt had suffered.  Fortunately, most times, Loki seemed to feel on the generous side when it came to Steve, so he was unharmed, so long as darkly angry stares didn’t really kill.

“So,” he went on, after consulting the hasty scribbles in his notebook, “ I don’t know what to say about prenatal care—” and there went his face, going hot again, and Loki was staring unblinking at the far wall, hands pressed ever more tightly to his belly, guarding himself, “but SHIELD offers it if you request it.  Is there anything you think you need?”

“No.” 

“Prenatal vitamins?”  Bruce had mentioned those to him.  “Mineral water?  Herbal teas?  Um, stretch mark creams?” Steve had stumbled across those items in his research—probably, may the Good Lord help him, from the same pregnancy blog Loki had read.  “Anything like that?”

Loki stilled, and Steve swore he could see him going inside himself, as if he were literally listening to his body.  Then Loki blinked, eyes overly green, and he was back. “Calcium supplements would be appreciated.”

“Calcium supplements,” Steve repeated, scribbling in his notebook.  “You got ‘em.” But he was announcing it to Loki’s shadow as the God’s patience had finally departed and taken him with it.

Steve sighed as he took out the official form and began to complete it.  This was going to be one heck of a report to write up and send to SHIELD.

***

Loki had found the past three weeks somewhat… _taxing_ , and the start of the fourth week seemed to only promise him more of the same.

He awoke entirely unwilling to get out of bed, especially since his wake-up call had been a far too cheerful intercom announcement in Captain Rogers' "leadership voice" that something called the Breakfast Club was convening.  Loki had no idea what that was, but he suspected it was one of the Teambuilding Moments he was supposed to participate in.

_No._

Heartburn was scorching him all the way up to the back of his throat.  He lifted his head enough to chug Mylanta straight from the bottle on his nightstand, then rubbed his eyes and let slip one final yawn.

Mistress Sleep was ever-fickle with him; more so now, he felt, despite his attempts to follow the healthiest lifestyle possible to benefit his unborn child. Though he had made the effort to retire timely the night before, he remained stubbornly awake long after his head had hit the pillows; thus he surrendered and made his way to his Project Room, where he worked on Stark's latest assignment: the redesign and implementation of a circuit board both so complex and so miniaturized that not even Stark Industries' most precisely-operated automatons could accurately craft it. But where technology might fail, magic might instead prevail; and Loki was pretty sure he had, as Stark would have said, "nailed it." 

Which was why Loki had signed his name on the circuit board in script so infinitesimal that one would be hard-pressed to detect it by anything short of an electron microscope.

And of course after _that_ he had dozed off, still at his work desk with chin propped on one hand, to finally startle awake when he almost fell headfirst into the monitor and its execrable SHIELD screen saver which Stark had locked in place with code Loki had yet to crack.  He slammed the power off, and only then had he finally rolled into bed and fallen into real sleep. And of course, it didn't seem like he'd been asleep for more than an hour or two when the intercom had made its valiant attempt to call him to breakfast. 

Plus, now he had a fiercely stiff neck, not to mention tense shoulder muscles, to show for all his work.

Loki finally sat up, peeling back the corner of the black-out curtains to check the time of day, and winced.  There was far too much sun greeting him--it must be as late as 9:00, perhaps even 10 a.m.  A goodly portion of his day was wasted already.  

He swayed when he got to his feet, and the world turned a little dark around the edges, so he had to sit back down.  _Oh, the indignity_.  It was so hard to eat with the at-best-sour stomach, not to mention a new stiffness in his ribs, as if his body meant to protect the child he was carrying.  He did not question it as much as accept it, knowing that his current physical form must have required substantial internal changes to allow him to harbor life. 

He counted back and realized it could have been as long as three days since he'd had a true meal.  So that did mean a visit to the kitchen was necessary; and unfortunately, his food was in the cupboard and refrigerator in the kitchen on Level 3.  So it did seem he'd be participating in the Breakfast Club after all.

He showered--the heat would certainly aid his stiff and aching body—and, as had become his daily custom, he slid a soapy hand over what he could only regard as a womb, examining with both physical and spiritual touch.  All was well within: despite any potentially worrisome signs to the contrary, he was healthy in his maternity, and the life inside was pulsing with exuberance—the intense green of new, growing grass, the tangy scent of an incoming tide.

He wasn't quite as sore when he got out of the shower, but he was still listless and light-headed.  He managed to towel his hair to an acceptable level of "dry", found a long-sleeve oversized black t-shirt to bury himself in, and pulled his sleep pants back on. That, with slippers, was about as good as it was going to get today.

* * *

Loki’s steel-cut oats were almost fully cooked, and he was stirring some honey and golden raisins into the mess in the pot, before anyone even noticed that he was in the kitchen.  Which had been fine with him, to stand as if invisible while the rest of them carried on with their so-called Breakfast Club.

_These are the noisiest humans on Midgard.  Could my penance not have been paid in a more tranquil venue?_

Of course it was Captain Rogers who would finally spot his presence amidst all the warm fuzzies of false comradeship.  At least he did not broadcast it to the team; instead, smiling, he simply made his way to Loki’s side, coffee cup in one hand, and the other holding out a crystal glass filled with some mysterious, slightly cloudy liquid.

“G’ morning.”  Rogers paused to take a swallow from his steaming cup while Loki, somewhat suspicious, accepted the offered glass.  “Apple cider,” Rogers clarified at Loki’s interrogative glance.

He made a show of sniffing it, then raised one brow.  “Organic?”

“From upstate New York,” Rogers nodded.  “Certified and orchard-fresh.” 

“Then, I thank you kindly for the sustenance.”  He allowed himself a sip, found it more than palatable (even close to Asgardian standards, though he would freeze his tongue off before ever admitting anything so positive about inferior Midgard cuisine), and then drained the glass in one long, cool, soothing swallow. “So.  What is…?” Loki waved his stirring spoon in the general direction of the party going on around a long table set near the reflective not-windows on the Conference Level.

“Oh, the ‘Breakfast Club.’  Rogers looked a little embarrassed.  “Director Fury got on me because I was letting too much time go by between Team Meals – they’re supposed to be weekly, but we haven’t managed one since Clint and Thor made us those tacos about a month ago.”

 _No wonder they were so odious._ Even the memory alone could apparently still make Loki queasy, and he was not entirely successful at stifling a reflexive gag.

Rogers regarded him curiously for a moment, but then went on. “So, Tony called his caterer for me and we set things up for this morning so I’d be off the hook.”

“Would that it were that easy for others of us to be off Fury’s ‘hook’.”  Loki tested his oatmeal one last time— _perfect_ —spooned himself a serving, and padded to the far side of the kitchen table to eat his meal in peace.

Rogers made as if to follow him, but then shrugged, turned on his heel and went back to the busy catering table.

Loki’s peace lasted not even a minute.  “Brother!”  Thor, carrying two laden buffet plates almost overflowing with food, thumped down beside him.  “Excellent—you have joined us for the feast!  What Tony Stark has set for us is called an ‘omelet bar.’  You must try some!”  He speared a chunk of some unrecognizable foodstuff onto his fork and held it out as an offering.  “Eggs, dozens of eggs, cooked and then filled with anything you may ask for from this world!  Would you like some with avocado, goat cheese, and Rainier cherries?”

“No.”  Loki wrinkled his nose at the stomach-churning smells coming from not just from Thor’s plates, but from the catering table itself, all grease and cooking batter and inferior-quality smoked meats. He put his hand to his mouth, gagging again, and his throat suddenly burned all the way down to his stomach.

“I love this omelet,” Thor rhapsodized, heartily chewing with his mouth open. Loki, feeling petty, started to invoke one of Frigga’s lessons about table manners, reaching to smack Thor’s hand as the Queen had done so many times during courtly banquets when they were yet young. 

But then there was a strange sudden pressure in his head, enough to make his ears hurt, and it left a headache behind it.  He changed courses and instead he spanned his forehead with one hand, rubbing at his temples with his thumb and index finger.  It didn’t help much.

Thor was rambling on--“Tony Stark must keep a flock of the finest hens to produce such eggs!”—but then his tone suddenly changed.  “Brother? Are you well?”

“I would be fine,” he snapped, even though he suddenly felt quite far from “fine”, “if only everyone left me to my own business… _brother_.”

Thor looked stung for only a moment, then took Loki at his word— _ah, Thor, from my most to my least significant exchanges with you, you still believe whatever I say_ \--and went back to his meal.  Loki pushed his own unfinished oatmeal away; even though he was still hungry, he knew he could not force down another bite—not the way his belly was suddenly hurting.

Thor left him shortly for even more food.  Loki weighed whether he should return to his suite… or perhaps just sit there a while, lest he become too ill during the transit.  He closed his eyes and tried to settle himself, counting out slow, deep breaths.  He thought he felt something below his heart flutter, but sitting here amidst all the _sound_ and the _smells_ and the _light_ made deep focus on the odd sensation impossible.

Conversations drifted distractingly around him.  “More mimosas, anybody?”  Stark, sounding buoyant and generous.  “Who wants another?  Pepper, c’mon, live a little.”

Ms. Potts, then, discouraging him.  “Tony, it’s a work day for _some of us_.”  Glassware clinked against a bottle still half-full, and even without eyes upon him, Loki could sense Stark’s pout as the sparkling wine was returned to the table.

“I’ll take that off your hands.”  Barton spoke up, and Loki gritted his teeth upon hearing that voice.  “I’m off-duty today—”  
  
“Unless the end of the world changes your plans--” Banner reminded, and Loki’s clenched teeth began a subtle grind—“as has been known to happen.”  
  
“Hey, hey, we’re all friends here, at least this morning, right, and here in my Tower eating the wonderful food I continue to make available to all of you?” Damn the champagne sparkle in Stark’s voice and his obsequious tone in reminding everyone how they should be beholden to him—

Loki startled, eyes flying open when Captain Rogers spoke almost right in his ear; somehow he had not noticed his approach. “Loki, there’s an extra Belgian waffle if you want it—”

And something inside Loki suddenly seem to shift, and press _upward_ , and it forced a strange, loud, embarrassing hiccup from him.

Rogers definitely noticed that.  “Need some water?” he offered sympathetically.

And of course in the next moment every conversation suddenly, almost magically tapered off, the better to allow another loud hiccup to actually _echo_ throughout the room.  He didn’t have to meet even one eye to know that the Avengers were all staring at him as though he were crawling out of a fresh impact hole in Stark Tower’s custom-laid sustainable carbonized bamboo flooring.

“Loki?”  Rogers was repeating his name.  “You don’t look so good. Are you all right?

“Something’s happening,” he managed, and he brought a hand to below his breastbone, where he felt the womb _rippling_ right under the skin beneath his fingers.

_I am an idiot—I have been laboring and had not the least notion of it._

The next hiccup somehow closed his throat and locked out his breath.  A quick spasm— _gasp for air_ \--and another long upward _p-r-e-s-s_ rolled along his insides.  His lips went numb as, somewhere along whatever comprised the birthing conduit, some vital nerve was compressed.

He heard the rapid clack of heels across the floor, and Romanoff was at his side, elbowing Rogers aside. “Loki!” she shouted commandingly in his ear.  “Can you talk?”

He couldn’t at that moment, shook his head— _no, back away, all is under control_ \--but too late he realized how she would read his gesture.  Indeed, Romanoff immediately flexed her arms and stepped behind him, misinterpreting his condition to the others.  “He can’t speak and that means he’s choking on something.  The Heimlich—he needs—”

He slouched over in his chair to protecting the fragility inside him, making a rigid cage of his arms about his torso to block her efforts to “help” him, and frantically shaking his head.  _You will break—you will break my child—_

And then Thor physically knocked her backward, away from Loki— _safe_ —and shouted, “Leave him be!  Can you not tell what’s happening?”

“No, actually,” came Stark again, “I can’t, but I’m a little afraid of what it might be.  Guys, remember that night we all watched ‘Alien’ together?

“Shut up,” Ms. Potts snapped, and Stark, shockingly, did.

And now that which had grown within him was drawn up from his womb by an odd reversal of peristalsis, and he isolated something hard and inflexible working its way up his throat.  The pressure would ease for a few seconds and he would find the space to breathe, but then the thing was on the move again, more rapidly.  And now he splayed his hand over the front of his neck, where he could feel his skin distend, and the muscles in his throat struggle to bring forth his progeny.

Then there was a sudden release, and something odd and smooth rolled into his mouth.  He hiccupped once more, eerily delicate this time, put his hand to his lips to catch it—

\--and there on his palm rested an egg, white shell streaked with mucus and a little bit of blood, slightly more than half the size of the hens’ bounty everyone had been enjoying just ten minutes before. 

“Whoa…” He dimly heard Barton murmuring, “Nice trick.  Wanna know how he did—”  
  
“Shut up,” Romanoff replied, and Loki wondered if he had gone mad because he would swear he felt her quickly pet his hair with a hand far too gentle for an assassin’s.

Rogers took the seat at his side and Loki managed to turn his head to look into blue eyes that, all things considered, were startlingly calm; had Loki a mirror to gaze into at that moment, he doubted that his would look nearly so composed.  “Loki, what can I do?  What do you need?”

He began to ask for water, then…“There seems to be… _another_ ,” he managed breathlessly just as his throat began to tighten and the muscles start working again.

It took longer this time, and once his breath seized long enough that his fingernails turned nearly Jotun-blue before the worst of the spasms released and allowed his air.  He suddenly realized that the strong steady hand on his shoulder was Thor’s, and Ms. Potts and Romanoff were hovering nearby as well—though, for the life of him, he could not imagine why.  He caught threads of their whispered conversation: “Should we tell him to push?” “I’m not sure--maybe it would work better if he kind of tried to vomit everything up?”  “How do I know, I’ve never—” “ _No one_ has ever--”

One last hiccup—so mild for all the effort he had expended in birth--and then the first egg’s twin rested beside it in his palm, and he stared at both in awe.

_My… children._

Two of them. He had no idea he would be so blessed.

He heard Stark’s voice, soft and somewhat pinched, giving instructions across the room.  “Um, I think you can close up the omelet bar now.  We’re done here today.  And maybe forever.”

And then Steve Rogers was bringing him the glass of cold water he so desperately wanted.  “There’s a little blood and… _stuff_ on your mouth and chin,” Rogers added, and without waiting for permission, wiped Loki’s face with a warm wet cloth.

Thor kissed him on the cheek before Loki could dodge away and pronounced solemnly, “Brother, on Asgard they will someday sing great songs of your courage and prowess in bringing these new lives into the unenlightened world of Midgard.”

Sudden exhaustion made the present begin to fade in and out.  Loki still found the power to spin the most delicate magic around the eggs, first a shield to cushion them (and he breathed into the bubble of magic, so that the children within would know the scent and heat of their mother, first and foremost); then a spell of physical protection from the dangers of this and all other realms; and last, a shining web of golden light binding them to the palm of his left hand so that they may not leave his hold. 

His last act before dozing off—right at the table, right in front of everyone, but he could not find it within himself to care in the least--was to gently slide that hand inside his shirt and cradle the eggs to his bare skin, not so much that he might keep them safe, but that he might delight in his children’s precious pulses against his heart. 


	2. Chapter 2

Any day that Tony Stark could spend working in his personal R&D lab was by default a good day. 

Except when it wasn’t.  Like today.

There was a God in his lab, and neither of them liked it one bit.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, he didn’t need Loki down in his lab.  They were accustomed to working remotely, with Loki in his Authorized Project Room that JARVIS thoroughly monitored 24/7/365 and could lock anything suspicious down in an instant.  And Tony, who relished fucking with Loki anyway—from a safe distance, always—would sometimes ask JARVIS to put a minor-but-annoying delay on his network connection so it seemed as if every keystroke was being monitored, “just in case.”  This could go on until Loki gave up in disgust, or Tony got tired of the game, or he actually had some critical, time-sensitive work for both of them to get done now.

But sometimes the scope of what they were working on was too large for their webcam set-up to cut it, and they had to be in the same space in order to make anything remotely feasible happen.

Which was why Loki was sitting beside him, with that palmful-of-magical-eggs from the other morning still cradled in his hand which was still tucked inside his goddamn shirt.  Before them hovered a life-size holographic simulation for the latest redesign of the Iron Man armor, as they both—plus JARVIS--tried to analyze just why the micro-circuitry Loki had completed three days before wasn’t working the way Tony had been positive it would.

What a shitty time, Tony thought again, for Bruce Banner to be out of town and unavailable as a lab partner.  Though all things being equal, he had to admit, sometimes he wasn’t quite sure that Bruce was the better option between the two.

“You must have fucked up on the specs somewhere,” Tony muttered to the air, as he pulled up a separate holographic display and rotated it through all dimensions, frowning and flicking at the simulation until he was at last satisfied with a minute rerouting of power flow through the suit’s sub-structure.  “JARVIS says—“  
  
“—There  is no discernible improvement in response time of deployment of the suit’s hydraulic systems despite the upgrade to the circuitry, sir.”

After a long pause came Loki’s calm response.  “Weren’t they your specs, Stark?  And I wasn’t even responsible for secondary review--I believe that was Banner’s task, wasn’t it?”  He tipped his head the slightest and crooned something incomprehensible to the bundle inside his shirt, smiling in a way that on another face would have been tender but which Tony found extra-creepy on Loki’s.

“Leave those things in an incubator the next time you’re down here.  No free daycare on the job.”  Tony inhaled, trying to focus, then blew out a slow breath.   “You must have fucked up somewhere in the assembly.  Go over it with me, step by step.” 

Loki’s eyes flickered ceilingward, just momentarily.  “Do you hear that, JARVIS?  You confirmed my actions, performed the quality check, yet your creator is impugning the accuracy of your analytical and diagnostic skills.  It should be sufficient to show him your visualizations of my work session to answer any questions he may have, before he impugns himself further.”  Then, one-handed, he called Tony’s display over to himself, and began to showily spin it.  “Is there something wrong with wanting my children to know their mama?”

“Da-da,” Tony answered, because why not.

“ _Mama_ , because it is my body that carries them.  And why should I entrust this last stage of growth to an uncaring, sterile environment filled with the clicks and whirrs of mechanisms turning and heating them, when I can nurture them with my own warmth, and where they can hear my voice?” He quirked his free hand to send fog to fill the simulation, the contrast between the opaque gray and the glowing lines both sharpening and isolating the design. Brow furrowed, Loki thoughtfully reviewed it, then deftly pressed Tony’s modification back into its previous shape before he flicked it dismissively back to him.  “Not quite on the right path yet, Stark.”

And fuck it all, but Loki was right.  “Enjoy expressing your Napoleon Complex on the company dime, man,” he muttered as he stared hard at the hologram. 

Under his breath, Loki responded, “I’m sorry, isn’t that the name of your next real estate development?”

Tony bit back a retort that would probably make his current working environment even less pleasant, then closed his eyes and willed himself to see the problem.  Loki might have genuine magic to work with, but after all these years, Tony was no slouch when it came to self-imposed head tricks to figure out exactly where a project had gone wrong.

And then, _boom_ , just like that, he had it.  “JARVIS,” he commanded, digital keyboard now under his fingers, “give us some Cheap Trick.” Life was just better with a soundtrack sometimes.

“‘Live at Budokan,’ sir?”

“Yeah. Random play.”

Loki flinched theatrically as the music blasted through the lab.  “Volume, please,” he sing-songed a protest.  “My ears—my _children’s_ ears...” 

And Tony could feel some sort of aural dampening effect in Loki’s vicinity, and motherfuck, it unsettled him no end when Loki used magic for personal means in the lab (as if using it in R&D wasn’t bad enough), but he was really too into the groove to care, his fingers flying over the keyboard.  God, even after all these decades, writing code was _fun_ , especially when he could literally watch the lines come to life in real time in the 3-D display before him.  He caught the next song that came up on the playlist and rode it like a wave.  “’I want you to want me, I neeeed you to need me….’”

He half-saw how Loki side-eyed him, obviously disapproving of classic rock, and a few seconds later there was another voice in the room, weaving through Tony’s to set up an impossible counterpoint.  It was melodious—albeit not quite in tune, and to say that Tony _loved_ that Loki didn’t automatically have perfect pitch was an understatement—and obviously some sort of Asgardian  lullaby from the liquid softness of the syllables.  And maybe he should have said something pointed to shut Loki up, but hey, all the sound wasn’t bothering him at all, so he kept on singing and working, and Loki kept on too, and yeah, it was just another workday in the lab.

He surfaced after a while, suddenly annoyed that he wasn’t getting anything from Loki in terms of practical assistance.  “Hey, Mother Goose, I’m enjoying our little duet here, but the work? –you can jump in any time.”

“I did.”  Tony took his eyes away from the simulation to spare a full glance, and Loki was monitoring the holographic display as well, leaning forward with sharpened eye and keen regard as the changes snapped into place.  And his free hand was dancing with unnatural speed over his own keyboard, making changes and corrections to Tony’s code so quickly, and integrating it so completely and instantaneously, that Tony hadn’t even been aware that they actually were collaborating on it.

God _DAMN_ it, he didn’t even work this seamlessly with Bruce.

“I think—” Loki started—

\--And Tony finished, “We got it.  JARVIS, do a 180 on the armor and open panel R-17.”

“No,” Loki broke in, “let’s try placement along the grid behind R-18—it’s closer to the reactor nodes.” 

“Yeah.”  Tony nodded.  “That makes sense.”

Loki reached out to miniaturize their holographic construct.  At least he followed protocol and didn’t shrink it entirely through magic, just used it for the last assist to take it to slightly-bigger-than-a-dust-mote size. Then just when Tony had started to feel pretty smug about their collaboration, the damn Ass-God had to go and _breathe_ it into position, and announce like he had been running the show, “JARVIS, run the simulation please.”

Little fucker.

“That will take me some minutes, gentlemen,” JARVIS responded politely, which could mean anything from five minutes to two or three hours.

“Knock yourself out and take your time.  I’m officially on a break.”  Tony rose, stretching to crack his back—he’d been hunched over his work table now for, give or take a few minutes and a couple bathroom breaks here and there, about fourteen hours.  He should probably go make a sandwich, or call for some takeout, depending on what time of day it was, and which side of two o’clock was he on right now anyway?

He stepped a few feet over to look over Loki’s shoulder to spy on his display; in response, Loki simply passed his hand before his screen and the image blurred to where Tony could no longer read it.

He thought what a shame it was that whatever Loki did probably wasn’t patentable technology.  He wasn’t sure whether Stark Industries or SHIELD would own it, per Loki’s contract, but he _was_ sure that his lawyers could make sure he would get the lion’s share of any profits from it.  Maybe he could do more frequency work with biofeedback and somehow…

“What are you doing with my coffee?”  Loki was looking up at him, smirking at catching him out.  “I wasn’t done with it.”

He realized he had started playing with the Starbucks cup at Loki’s elbow; he must have picked it up while he was in invention-trance.  The quarter-cup of beverage left in the bottom began heating up so quickly he had to fumble his grip upwards to keep from being burned by it.  “Why’s your cup say ‘Steve’ on it?”

Loki took his coffee back and drew a genteel sip.  “Captain Rogers picked up my order while he was out.  I am unwilling to expose my children to the outside.  Not with the way I am often still… disrespected by the populace when I appear in public.”

No shit on that.  He wondered if Loki was still pulling on that bulletproof vest before he stepped outside the confines of StarkTower.  “Why do you even have a cup?  Are you drinking coffee again?  I thought…”

“It is safe for me to indulge now that my children are free of the confines of my body.  I need merely protect them from any toxins in the environment.  Ms. Potts recommended an all-natural, anti-bacterial body wash with tea-tree oil that I find quite pleasant—”

“So what are you having?” Tony blurted out, surprising himself at his sudden curiosity.

“I don’t know.”  One corner of Loki’s mouth lifted, almost playfully.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?”  His blood sugar must be totally fucked up to even think about pursuing this line of conversation.

“I say exactly what I mean,” came the arch response.

“Oh, since when?” he mocked.  “Cut the bullshit, Loki.  God of Lies and all that, remember?  We’ve seen your resume.”

Loki paused and nodded, arching one brow.  “Point.”  He drew in a deep breath, totally not designed to make Tony believe that Loki was actually revealing the God’s Truth to him.  “At this point, beyond having a sense of the gender of my children, divining their actual form is beyond my skills.”

“Really.  Still not believing it.” 

“Believe what you will.  It matters not to me.”

“So,” and Tony could feel how his voice automatically went all “ _j’accuse!_ ” like he was in court or answering an allegation at a press conference, “you might be hatching some miniature little sparkle-fairy that dances around the forest and speaks to all the baby animals, huh?  Or maybe Tinker Bell or Thumbelina, or….”  Dammit, why couldn’t he remember more Disney movies and Brothers Grimm right now?

“If even that.”  Dammit, Loki seemed to be enjoying this absurdist interplay, instead of becoming pissed off enough to get off his butt and leave the lab, _please_.  “Not all offspring of Asgard resemble their parents.”  Tony thought he saw just a little something… _off_ , cross the edge of Loki’s expression, but it was gone too fast for him to be sure.

“So that means you could hatch out anything, huh?”

“In theory, yes.  In practice, I think there are… reasonable limits.”

“Know what I think?”  Tony pressed on, and even though he knew that letting his mouth run was a bad idea, he was beyond stopping himself.  “I think you owe it to me—to us—to tell us what’s really going on with those eggs.  I mean, what if you end up hatching the next Rodan or Godzilla or an army of… oh, I don’t know,” and he gestured wide to make the thoughts come, “five-hundred foot tall chickens that can stomp Midtown to dust while you’re crowing commands to them from the roof?”

“’Crowing commands’?”  Loki’s expression shifted darkly for an instant, but then the smirk came back.  “I assure you, the next army I _may_ bring will not be comprised of poultry.”  Ooh, he was careful with that “may”, so JARVIS wouldn’t send a security report to SHIELD or anything like that.

 _Poke, poke,_ and what, was he twelve again or something? “I just might call a Team Meeting of my own and make you tell us.”

“You think that I would tell you more under duress?”

“We can probably get you to do a lot of things under duress, you know.  Oh, wait, we already do.”  Loki’s eyes widened in a warning— _dangerous territory ahead, Stark_ , as clear as if it had been spoken—but still, he went there. “You know, maybe Clint is right, and that really was just a magic trick, and now you’re playing us—”

“Silence, Stark.”  Loki suddenly rose from his chair and pointed right at the center of Tony’s chest, and somehow it was intimidating even if Loki was still holding his Starbucks cup and, you know, pointing _around_ it.

And Tony skittered back because, wow, did he have issues first with anyone coming at him, second with anyone acknowledging that he even _had_ a center to his chest and third, this was the God of Making People Kneel When They Didn’t Want To and he’d be damned if he was going to be forced down in his own R &D lab… Plus why wasn’t JARVIS pulling Loki’s plug?  But if the AI wasn’t feeding Loki a nice jolt of electroshock right about now that would take him down better than a battalion of riot cops with Tasers, then wait, that meant Loki was no threat despite how he might look right now…

“And sit back down.”  Loki’s calm voice again, coupled with the knowing smirk, and what the hell was happening anyway, because yeah, Tony did sit back down. “I simply wish to show you something.”

“What?” He squirmed uncomfortably at Loki’s deliberately non-threatening approach.

“Do you know what ‘candling’ is?”

“Well,” he shrugged as his heartbeat slowed to its normal, measured rate, “Pepper and I tried the hot wax thing one time, but then she got a little too frisky and almost burned off my nu—” He stopped himself, and coughed. “No.  Not really.”

“I give you a great gift, Stark, that you should know what I know.  And at the same time, you may also do me a kindness, if you might be so generous.”  Loki’s arm snaked out from inside his shirt, and with a graceful turn of his wrist, he held his palm upright and extended the eggs out to him. And for a moment Tony could feel whatever glamour Loki had wrapped around his offspring—

_unconditional love sense of self sense of strength_

\--before it dissipated as though it had never been there.  Still, for that moment, to Tony it had felt… _way_ too good, and he couldn’t help replaying it in his head.

“Please take off your shirt.”  And Loki actually slid the bent pinky finger of his free hand under the hem of Tony’s tank top and eased it upwards.

“Hey!” Tony startled back to himself to bat Loki’s hand away with both of his. “I don’t care what the other girls say, but I’m not that kind of boy—”  
  
“Stark.  All I ask is… a favor.”  A head tilt, a raised brow, an unnatural coaxing smile….

“Shit.”  Was he ever skating on the edge here, but… “Fine.”  He coughed.  “Fine.”  He pulled it off over his head, and found that he was panting just a little at the turn of events. 

Loki made not only a face, but a sound of disgust as the shirt hit the floor.  “Oh, Stark, _shower_ , please.”

“Maybe if I can borrow some of that _body wash_ Pepper turned you on to…”

Shit, bare-chested in front of Loki felt bad, real bad, a whole other level of wrongness and vulnerability, and he didn’t even know why he had done it, and Loki wasn’t supposed to be able to access any curses or… _mind manipulation_ that would make someone behave out of character.  But he breathed, in and out, and reminded himself of automatic electroshock if things got too weird…. 

And Loki’s face was impossibly soft, as with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he carefully plucked one egg free from its bindings, and held it out to the clear blue light of the arc reactor.  His voice went hushed, almost worshipful.  “What irony that this happens to be the perfect lighting for my purposes.  Do you see, Stark?  This is one of my children.” 

Tony dropped his chin to take a look, and, damn, the eggshell was nearly transparent when viewed through the light of the arc reactor.  There was something amorphous suspended within the shell along the vertical plane, moving slowly as a bent reed in sluggish water, with a rhythmic flutter at its center.

“See how strongly its heart beats, how much life it contains.”  Loki stared for a long moment before slowly withdrawing the egg to nestle it safe again. “And now my other—my livelier--child.”  His eyes danced as this shape seemed to wriggle playfully in the spill of the light of the reactor.  Both he and Loki watched this one for a long, long time, before Loki at last tucked it away too and slid his hand back within his shirt. 

And then Loki was handing Tony’s discarded tank top back to him, nose wrinkling against the unlaundered stink of it, and Tony was pulling it on and hiding the reactor’s light just as if the last five minutes had never happened.  Loki finally broke their silence.  “What say you, Stark?”

And Tony said the only thing he could.  “Cool.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”  JARVIS, thankfully, interrupted before it could get any stranger.  “I have finished running the simulation.”  
  
“Results?” They spoke up simultaneously.

“I am pleased to tell you that the circuitry upgrade was successful within the set parameters of the simulation.”

And, _yes!—_ Tony fist-pumped success, then moved to high-five Loki; but Loki had already turned an unblinking stare at him, all traces of that supernal softness that had limned his face now gone, baby, _gone._  And he was back to being one snotty God-in-bondage with a handful of eggs tucked inside his shirt, which, by the way, wasn’t exactly spring-fresh either since Tony was sure it was the same one Loki had been wearing at breakfast a couple days before when he had hiccupped his progeny into the world.

Still, Loki straightened himself with the same kind of dignity he would assume whether he wore armor or a suit or that maternity t-shirt, and announced, “I shall go back to my Project Room now and rework the circuitry, as that can be— _thankfully_ —a solo project.  I shall try to have everything ready for you by this time tomorrow.”

“Works for me,” Tony muttered.  He was already back at the worktable and coaxing up another display, because it wasn’t like today’s successful sub-sub-sub-project was anywhere near the end of the redesign process.  Hopefully, Bruce would be back tomorrow too and he and Loki wouldn’t have to get into awkward-collaboration mode again.  

Loki was almost fully out the door before Tony remembered one last thing he’d meant to ask while caught in the glow of the arc reactor.  “Hey.  You said you knew their genders.  Boy or girl?”

He doubted he would get an answer—hell, Tony didn’t really know why he’d bothered to ask, really--but Loki spared Tony the barest glance, and that creepy-yet-tender smile was on his face again as he replied, “ _And_.”

* * *

“You’re the leader of the team.  It’s your responsibility to stop him when he does… stuff.”

Steve sighed.  And here he had had thought Tony’s offer to hang out and watch a baseball game together on the big screen television was a genuine gesture of camaraderie, not a devious method to get him to lend a captive ear.  “Stop him from what, Tony?  From smiling even if it bothers you?  From enjoying the sunshine instead of hiding in his room? From being happy?”

“He’s Loki.”  Tony finished peeling the label off a second bottle of beer, then popped it open with one of three convenient church keys sitting handy on the counter of the bar. “Unless he’s planning something—and I wouldn’t put it past him, we’ve seen him do it and you’ve let him get away with it--he _can’t_ be happy.” 

“Well, call him ‘content’ then,” Steve conceded. 

Tony just snorted, and took a generous swig of his beer before continuing.  “It’ll be a cold day in… in… _Jotunheim_ before I let him in my lab again.”

“According to Thor, all the days in Jotunheim are cold,” Steve answered mildly.  “Except when they’re _extra_ cold.”  Tony shook his head, complaining under his breath over the “Play ball!” announcement and the subsequent crowd roar, about how he wasn’t going to put up with any more “unusual behavior” while Loki was working with him.  Based on what he’d alluded to earlier, Steve had the distinct impression that the “unusual behavior” was on Tony’s side, not necessarily Loki’s; but unless Tony was willing to tell him, he’d never really know.

Instead, Steve went on, “I really don’t think you have anything to worry about—in fact, none of us do.”  He waved a manila folder at Tony, who was pretending deep interest in the first at-bat of the game.   “I asked JARVIS to run a report this morning—Loki’s biorhythm analysis for the past sixty days.  Want to take a look at it?  It’s pretty interesting.”

Tony wordlessly took the sheaf of papers out of the folder and began leafing through them as he made his way to the oversize leather sofa in front of the big screen and flopped down on it.  Steve joined him.

“Huh,” Tony finally said noncommittally.  “Right.  Interesting.” His tone was an exact parroting of Steve’s as he dropped the papers on the coffee table, swapping them for a handful of cashews.

Steve pushed the graphs back in Tony’s field of vision, tracing his finger across the data lines.   “I can follow the trend without knowing a thing about data analysis.  All his metrics are high—almost off the charts—at the beginning of the time period we’re measuring.”

“I see this all the time.  That red zone, believe it or not, is Loki’s baseline.  His amygdala is always lit up like a broken traffic signal.  The only one who’s consistently worse on the ‘anger’ measure is Bruce.”  Tony fidgeted on the couch before making a game of tossing back the cashews, one by one, into his mouth.  But Steve could tell he was peeking at the analysis between successful catches.

Steve continued to trace out the various lines.  “But check out just about four weeks back.    That’s around the time he announced to us that he was ‘with child.’  There’s a steady downward trend on all measurements since then, into the yellow zone and even a few dipping down into the green.  See what I mean?  He doesn’t stay there all the time—his patterns are still erratic—but the only other time he’s ever read that consistently calm, he was comatose.  So there’s something positive going on in his head through all this.”  Steve couldn’t hold back a grin.  “Proof that impending motherhood becomes him, maybe?”

“Fatherhood,” Tony put in contrarily, probably just because he could. “I don’t get this ‘mama’ thing he has going on.  He’s got the parts—I’ve seen ‘em—so he should claim the babydaddy _name_ , man.”

Steve laughed and took another sip of his iced tea.  “And I thought I was supposed to be the one who would have problems with today’s changing gender roles.”

“So let’s see,” Tony mused sarcastically, “he’ll have a couple kids, settle down in the suburbs, do the soccer and PTA mom thing… Somehow I don’t think stay-at-home mom is his career path, unless he plans to home-school the kids in World Domination 101.”

Steve spared a glance at Loki, still standing out on the sundeck where he had been for at least the past hour.  His face was turned to the sky now, the expression on it as if he was regarding Heaven—or Home—somewhere far away in today’s clear bright sky.  The beatific effect was ruined a bit by how much he was squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun, plus by the hot pink barrette holding back some of his longish hair to keep it from blowing in his face.

Steve really needed to invite Loki to participate the next time he dove into studying pop cultural references, or at least find somewhere to buy him a leather or metal hair clasp and insist that he use those alone for hair care, no matter what else anybody tried to hand him, or simply leave where he would find it.    But at least it wasn’t a Hello Kitty hairband this time.  No one had ever dared to cop to _that_ prank, no doubt quite wisely.

Today, the twin eggs were out on display, two chalk-pale ovoids against Loki’s equally pale palm.  With his right hand cupped under his left to add additional support, it looked as if he were making an offering, especially when his lips began to move.  Over the sound of the ball game (and Steve’s team, the formerly-the-Brooklyn Dodgers, were behind, and now he would have to watch the replay on the sports channel tonight), Steve could catch some sort of flowing recitation or perhaps even a song coming from Loki.

Tony rolled his eyes, grabbed the remote, and cranked the Bose speakers up until the couch they both sprawled on was vibrating a little from the bass.  “There he goes again.  I don’t even know what that means but from yesterday I’d say he’s up to something—”

“He is asking for the blessing of the mighty sun upon his unborn children, that they may always have light to guide them on their path.”  Thor was suddenly in the room, and Steve—Tony too—shifted a little uncomfortably, wondering if the God of Thunder had heard any of the bad-mouthing going on.  Apparently not, for Thor went on somberly, “It is a common ritual on Asgard, especially for those who find themselves in the position of being--I believe the Midgardian term is—a ‘single parent.’  I have stood beside the widow of many a fallen brother and pledged myself to aid their children should troubled times befall them.  I shall attend Loki in this ritual today.”

“Um, Thor,” Steve hedged, “did he actually _ask_ you?”  Yes, it was very obvious that Loki and Thor were getting along fairly well for a change, but from what Steve could tell, any bending of their tacit rules on fraternal behavior was coming from Loki, rather than Loki allowing himself to be bent by his older brother.

Thor obviously thought upon it, then cleared his throat.  “I shall _offer_ to attend him.”

Tony nodded his approval.  “More like it, buddy. Don’t push too hard or you’ll be pulling another knife out of your ribs.”  
  
“At least it will be no worse than a kitchen knife this time!” Thor commented brightly, then headed through the double-glass doors leading outside to the sun deck.

Of course Steve and Tony both watched them, even their feigned interest in the ball game forgotten. From the change of expression on Loki’s face—from distant and entranced to sour and resentful—it was obvious that Loki did not appreciate Thor’s interruption of the ritual.  Words were exchanged.  Fingers were stabbed accusingly in Thor’s direction, followed by mollifying, pat-the-air gestures in Loki’s.  But finally, Loki’s expression lightened, the corners of his thin mouth turning up, and he nodded.  Even from inside and with the speakers set so high, they could hear Thor’s booming “Thank you, brother!”

Steve laughed as Tony muttered, “Yeah, just like Thor to thank Loki for being allowed to do little brother a favor.”

“Loki’s not the only one smiling now too,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but it looks a lot better on Goldilocks.”  Tony turned back to the big screen and, using the remote, began flipping through the hundreds of available channels.  “You don’t need any biorhythms to tell how Uncle Thor is feeling these days.”

Steve kept his eyes on the activity on the sun deck.  Thor stood close behind Loki, broad hands splayed on his brother’s shoulders, tendering rarely-accepted tactile support while Loki continued with his petition to the golden sun. Steve knew from too many heartfelt conversations with Thor that the two Gods were not brothers in blood by even the most tenuous connection; and that the enmity had run so deep for so long, for reasons completely beyond Thor’s comprehension other than how much it _hurt_.  But now, as the two spared the occasional glance, or exchanged infrequent words, Steve was struck by how much, with Loki’s lighter expression—squint and windblown black hair aside—they actually bore some sort of family resemblance beyond that solely begat by common blood. 

Steve couldn’t disagree that it was an unusual experience to see Loki wearing an expression other than disdainful or contemptuous, his usual mask; softer emotions simply did not sit right on that narrow, angular face.  He was pretty sure, though, that everyone would be able to get used to it.

* * *

But it turned out there was nothing to get used to, for on the eighth day, Loki suddenly stopped smiling.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my dear missbecky for the expedited turn-around time on the beta. I <3 UUUUUUU!!!!!!!


	3. Chapter 3

If asked, Loki would never admit that his sole leisure pastime on Midgard was replicating his Asgardian library of spells, potions, and other sorcerer's tools, against the day he might have full use of them again. But indeed, this was the Liesmith’s greatest truth. 

Between his own memory and that of a notebook computer, he could recreate and store every spell he had used, plus most of them he had ever been taught or simply had read, and have all of them at his fingertips in that marvel of Midgardian technology called a “database.” Most, he did not currently have the ability to use as they were meant to be; others he was able to take advantage of on almost a daily basis. Spells for minor healing, for enhancing one’s physical strength, or boosting one’s concentration; to either conquer drowsiness or to send oneself into peaceful dreams; even a few of those he had originally crafted to entertain himself when he was bored and wanted to cause just a touch of carefree mischief. (He was quite careful as to when, where and on whom he cast those, knowing how closely their use came to violating the conditions of his captivity… but it was just so much _fun_.)

With the Midgardian ingredients that were rough equivalents to what he was familiar with on Asgard, he gradually restocked his supplies; created poultices and powders and infusions, carefully storing them according to their nature in stoppered vials or glassine bags or wax-sealed wooden boxes. He sought out spices and peppers, herbs and grasses, drying everything on a small rack and then carefully bottling fragrant pods or wrapping stems with twine. Coming by the right minerals and metals and ores was harder (and Stark would be quite surprised at what Loki had been able to liberate from the R&D lab’s “trash” and then distill into something quite useful), but in time he gathered enough necessities to feel comfortable with his provisions. 

Everything was properly labeled, organized, and then stored away in a redundantly-locked cabinet (a padlock with a small enchantment worked upon its one key). He was abundantly proud of what he had been able to achieve in such a primitive society. 

He could--theoretically--perform any bit of magic he chose.

But somehow, he had never prepared himself for _this_ contingency, always in his arrogance dismissing this particular field of curative magic as below his station as a sorcerer meant to do the grandest deeds. His cupboard might as well have been bare. 

Raiding Stark’s pantry—specifically, the little jars and cartons found in the spice cabinet—helped fulfill some of this morning’s urgent needs; Banner's medical lab supplied a few more. That which was lacking was ordered from the Whole Foods just blocks away and rush-delivered within forty-five minutes, which should have been in plenty of time.

But it took more time to select the most apt ingredients, to use mortar and pestle to grind to a powder so very fine it might penetrate a seemingly solid but actually porous surface; to come as close as possible to recreating the healing high-mountain hot springs water of Asgard by adding the correct minerals—but it required that he crush this tiny stone, filter the impurities, add a pinch of what was left, and then do it ten times again, with a different stone each time—and then bind it with that which powered life.

And then when the database contained nothing appropriate, time to pore again through the library of his mind, trying to recall the words of elder healers who specialized in issues of maternity in order to know how to properly bend the spells he did have to this purpose.

If only, if only.

For four focused hours he worked, a whisper a chant then a cry on his lips, splayed fingers trembling as he reached from deep within himself and drew from sinew and marrow all his concentrated power to send forth. He gave of his own breath and his own blood, attempted to match the beating of his heart to the faltering flutter within the shell. Despairing, he dared to reach outside himself for another mystical power, found his brother's connection to Mjölnir, stole as much as he could without Thor (or JARVIS, or the SHIELD interface) noticing, and fed lightning energy into the contents of the fragile shell, meting it out so carefully against its bursting power that the tips of his fingers were burned and blistered before he had finished.

For naught, as it turned out, for at last he bowed his head, stopped his efforts, and conceded that he had failed to save his son.

* * * 

Cold ashes, charred grass, and pungent, sour sweat, all hanging heavy in somnolent, too-heated air: those stinks mingled in Steve’s nostrils when he was finally allowed into Loki’s suite close to nine that evening--a full twelve hours since the dawning realization by the residents of Stark Tower that something was seriously wrong with Loki. 

The smells reminded Steve of barracks after a battle, the aura that surrounded exhausted men counting both their blessings, and their dead. And no doubt about it, there had been some sort of battle here, one fought with weapons with which Steve had only passing familiarity, and no hope of understanding. 

Loki’s foyer, usually kept as tidy and impersonal as a hotel lobby, showed the first signs—the start of the conflict—with piles of torn and discarded bags and hastily unpacked boxes underfoot. White candles deliberately arranged in each corner had burned to their bases, leaving soot-ghosts trailing up the walls where their flames had once flickered. Tendrils of melted wax futilely reached toward the center of the floor, where a knotted length of green rope had been carefully placed. And there was broken glass—lots of it; Steve would have to be careful where he stepped—and stains on the floor where the shattered containers had spilled their contents, potions and powders and liquids and one still-bubbling wet spot that reminded him of acid. He wondered whether Loki had accidentally dropped some of his supplies in his haste, but almost immediately calculated a trajectory from the breakage patterns on the floor and realized that they had been thrown at force from inside Loki’s Project Room.

Loki was always very unforgiving to anything that failed him. 

Steve cleared his throat before coming closer, then called out. “Loki? Thanks for letting me in.” There was no response; he hadn’t expected one. He was still surprised that, at his most recent knock and concerned call, he had finally heard the audible click of the door-lock releasing. Not much of an invitation, but still, he took the gesture for what it was. He was momentarily warmed that, out of all those who had tried to breach Loki’s sanctuary that day, only he was being allowed entrance. But then again, knowing Loki’s mercurial temperament, maybe he should be running, not walking, in another direction, and let Thor deal with it instead.

Save the lock had never released for Thor, no matter how he had pleaded; and Steve had never been one to run from a challenge, and by his honor, he wasn’t about to start now. 

He heard the small, soft sounds of habitation in Loki’s Project Room—a body shifting heavily in a chair, the scratch of nails across a work surface, a tight metal lid on a glass jar being forced open—and picked his way across the foyer to its door. Inside the lights were off, save for two bright task lamps casting their glow in the center of the work table, where a long block of balsa wood was being worked into something presently indefinable. Beyond, the blinds were opened to the vista of Manhattan at night, something that could usually catch Steve in its mystique and leave him gazing—mostly in wonder--for hours at what the city had become. 

The roll of wheels from one end of the table to the other, and with head bent and shoulders bowed, Loki’s dark silhouette moved into his line of sight. He made a vague pretense of trying to square himself in the presence of another, then abandoned it and instead, into the warm spill of golden light, brought up his hands.

His _empty_ hands.

Even though everyone had already guessed that something like this had come to pass, so he shouldn’t have been surprised, Steve still felt heartsick. Before he could find any words of sympathy or condolence that would be appropriate for such a loss, Loki was already speaking up, in a voice raw and low but still, somehow, mocking. 

“Contrary to Stark’s opinion, Captain, I am not averse to the use of something other than my own body to tend my children at times when I must be free to work unencumbered.” He gestured toward the edge of his work space, where Steve could just spot a small incubator in which a single egg sat under a clear dome. The mechanism worked as he watched, giving the egg a quarter-turn. Loki’s eyes slid to the side, and after a moment of obviously just not watching but evaluating, he nodded before taking up a small, fine-bladed craft knife in one hand and the length of half-worked wood in the other. 

Steve looked then toward the other end of the table where away from any heat—not the incubator’s, nor Loki’s body—the second egg rested in what could only be a casket, a small, hand-crafted box filled with scraps of bright silk to cushion its contents. The egg’s surface was no longer chalky-white, instead burnished dark with pigments staining it reddish-brown. The gilded runes that had been brushed onto it seemed alive, shining and moving in the spare light as if they tried to awaken the tiny creature within.

In a quiet, matter of fact voice, Loki confirmed, “One of my children is no more.” 

“I’m sorry, Loki,” Steve said into the stillness.

Perversely, his sympathy straightened Loki’s spine, and set the taut line of his mouth into a stubborn frown. “Your condolences are accepted in the Midgardian spirit in which they are intended, even though it is unnecessary. Ours is a warrior culture, Captain, and Death is a fate most common on Asgard. I have already shed my tears and made my peace. And now I prepare to send my brave son to Valhalla, if they will have him. For he was truly a warrior in his battle to survive.” 

Loki turned his attention inward again as he bent close over the block of wood, knife at the ready. Designs that cried out their origins on the other side of the realms had been diagrammed on its sides in rust-colored lines that looked suspiciously like they had been drawn in blood. One glance at Loki’s fingertips, reddened and blistered and with tiny, deliberate cuts to the pads, confirmed that likelihood. 

He worked in silence for several long minutes, ignoring everything as he studiously carved designs into one small section of the balsa wood, frequently pausing to sand and buff them until they were to his satisfaction. And then the air in the close room suddenly pulsed and shifted and _pulled_ , as thin multicolored streams flowed from his deft hands, to paint his handiwork in bright, almost living hues.

Loki nodded in satisfaction, then abruptly spun the chair to directly face Steve for the first time. Looking up in the dim light, he seemed ghoulish, pale face all dips and hollows filled with black shadow, mouth thin and compressed. His reddened eyes, hooded and intense, met Steve’s. “Where I wish to go tonight to honor my son is beyond my allowed perimeter, as well as outside the hours I’m allowed freedom from my incarceration here. Thus I will require an escort. I wish it to be you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” came the blunt reply, “I suspect that you will do what I want.” 

Steve flushed at the truth. He didn’t like to think he was a softer touch than any of the others when it came to Loki—even with as much grief as the rest of the team gave him, every time he let Loki flex against his constraints within what Steve judged were allowable limits—but since that one time more than a year ago, Loki hadn’t pressed an advantage against him when he was granted concessions. And Steve never would stop letting himself believe that even the worst devil could harbor goodness, and even, perhaps, one day become good.

“Plus,” Loki went on, “since I must have company, yours is—”

“Tolerable?” Steve gave him a sideways smile. 

“No. It is… not entirely unwelcome.” Loki seemed almost as surprised by his admission as Steve was to hear it, but went on without further remark. “Thus I will meet you in the ground floor elevator lobby of the Tower at two a.m.” And then the arch look Steve associated with their God of Mischief was back, as Loki regarded him carefully, then coolly added, “And even though this may not be the practice of your world, I expect that you will treat this occasion with the respect it deserves.” 

***

Two o’clock in the morning. New York City might never sleep, but even in midtown Manhattan, Steve thought, it could doze off for just a little bit. The only traffic on the streets was an occasional taxicab, and the few pedestrians on the sidewalk seemed as lost in their post-midnight worlds as were Steve and, presumably, Loki.

Steve caught his reflection in the glass of a darkened shop window, and paused for a moment to adjust the tie of his vintage dress uniform. That had seemed to him the most appropriate attire for tonight, and Loki apparently agreed; when they had met in the lobby a few minutes before, Loki had looked him up and down, then given a brusque nod of approval. But Steve could only give him a pointed look of warning, for Loki was dressed head to toe in clothing with a strong Asgardian influence, dangerously close to that which was forbidden him as “provocative” or “antagonistic” to the people of Earth. And the dark ensemble—tailored wool and leather under what Steve figured were robes cut of genuine silk and velvet—hadn’t been cobbled together at the last minute either; obviously, someone skilled had been working on this for some time. Steve suspected Thor might be working as Loki’s go-between with whatever tailor had been convinced to accept the commission. 

If he truly took his position as leader of the Avengers seriously, and honored his commitment to SHIELD to adhere strictly to regulations and enforce them in the name of protecting Earth, Steve would have sent Loki back up to his suite to change clothes immediately. After all, Loki did have a dress suit (SHIELD-approved, off the rack, charcoal gray and completely undistinguished, reluctantly worn to his quarterly probation hearings at HQ) which, technically, would have worked just fine for Loki’s purposes tonight. 

But this new garb was colored in dull, dark reddish-browns and muted purples—not in the forbidden combination of black, gold and green--with only a few metallic accents to it, and nothing resembling body armor. And the bronze helmet—with no hint of horns whatsoever, in meticulous obedience of the injunction against them—was strictly for ceremonial use only, since Steve could easily tell that its design offered its wearer no protection whatsoever. There was no menace to the attire at all, and Loki simply looked at ease in it, securely wrapped in clothing that had at least some familiarity to him in style and feel--

\--the same way Steve felt every time he put the modern dress uniform the Army had issued him upon reactivation of his status to active duty back into the closet, and instead chose to wear the one that was most familiar, the most comfortable, to him.

So Steve instead smoothed his face and said nothing, keyed in the code that unlocked the lobby doors after-hours, and accompanied Loki outside into the cool night air. 

And now, each holding their own, deep silence, they walked briskly uptown, America’s beloved Super Soldier in tandem with one of Earth’s most-reviled denizens, the fallen God of Mischief.

***

The night-muted sounds of Manhattan faded away behind them as Loki led the way into Central Park, moving quickly and quietly along paths he had never before traveled save in his mind. A minute’s perusal of a small map online had been sufficient to teach him the way.

How refreshing it was to be this free, this far, from Stark Tower, neither confined in it nor to the narrow, noisy radius around it that was allowed to him. For a fleeting moment he could pretend that he was no longer incarcerated, paying penance, in the City he had putatively wronged. Instead, in his mind and heart he could be anywhere he wanted… if he could ever know where that was, or if it even existed save as an unnamed, unformed dream. 

This late, the lights of the hotels lining the southern perimeter of this green-space were faded enough that he could ignore their existence. He could revel in the relative darkness around him, sensing starlight’s glow and the silver of a waning moon behind a curtain of high clouds above. He smelled the chlorophyll of the leafy trees, the dew upon the tender grass; drew into his lungs the scent of Midgardian jasmine—so very similar to Asgard’s—that bloomed by night. Here, where the great force of Nature herself pushed back against the intrusion of the metropolis and its acrid and pervasive scents of fossil fuels and humanity, there was finally a genuine freshness to the air, chaste and pure.

He listened for the song of the zephyr wind, not the false and frantic rush of currents through skyscraper causeways, and found it whispering to him. 

If only the circumstances allowing him this temporary freedom could have been different and he could revel in it, instead of mourn. 

Automatically he spread a hand over the long wooden box hidden in his robes, desperate to reach out for one last time and try to find anything within it not cold and lifeless. But he damped his magic and stopped himself for he knew he would find naught but disappointment in his gesture. It was time to let go.

The path dipped and the way grew darker; he conjured foxfire, sending the green glow out from the palms of his hand to light his way. Ahead he smelled still water and algae—good; he was almost there. Behind him, Captain Rogers’ steps, quiet as they might be, disrupted the silence that otherwise had settled like a fog around him. 

Loki tensed, halfway between annoyed and distressed. Which was more wrong, to be forced to have someone—even someone as innocuous as Captain Rogers—at his back in this time of private sorrow… or to have someone _covering_ his back?

To his right was the glitter of water, lit only by the glow thrown from his palms; the promised stone archway was directly ahead. He trod the gentle slope of the Bridge of Gapstow, quelled the foxfire glow, and paused at the top of its modest span to stare out at the pond before him. Captain Rogers stopped beside him, momentarily relaxing enough to fold his hands atop the bridge’s stone parapet and wait until Loki was ready to move along. The good Captain did not attempt to meet his eye, nor speak with him, nor do anything to intrude upon this moment of contemplation. 

If Loki must have someone at his back, he finally decided grudgingly, he could have done much worse. 

And now down the bridge, to the other side of the Pond, where Loki finally left the path. He carefully picked his way down the damp slope, fastidiously catching up his new robes so that they might not drag in the dirt and muck, and crouched at the water’s edge. After a moment’s hesitation, Rogers followed him, but placed himself several respectful feet away, standing at what Loki knew could only be full attention.

The box left its hiding place in his robes. Carefully he removed the lid, and took from within a miniature longboat of the type used for many maritime purposes on Asgard, if not for the one he intended tonight. 

How silly to adapt a Midgardian cinematic ritual—itself a perversion of that which the Vikings had already bastardized from Asgardian rites—to tonight’s somber occasion. Yet Thor had been enthralled by the version shown on Tony Stark’s home theatre screen one Movie Night; and Loki himself had been strangely impressed by the pomp and theatricality that outdid Asgard’s own. Such a funeral might not be accurate to home—as if Asgard were his home, he scoffed—but it was informed by Midgardian precepts, and since that was where he had been exiled… it seemed not inappropriate to adapt it. 

Much more satisfying than a simple pyre on land buried at the end under stones.

He slid the tiny open casket into the niche he had carved for it, carefully securing it even as he somehow managed not to directly regard the remains of his son. Loki set in place the final piece—a small mast with a billowing sail of fine silk—then took a deep breath and set the funeral craft upon the water. He pursed his lips, made a strong wind gust, and the little boat glided smoothly toward the center of the pond.

The oil he had rubbed into the boat made it potently flammable. Still, he delayed the final gesture as long as he could, suspended in reminiscence. But finally came the proper chant to his lips--stronger for being dry, unvoiced, nearly mechanical—then his petition to those he wished to carry his son to glory, then at last a spell that brought flames to his mouth. He touched his fingers to the live heat of the fire and, like blowing a kiss, cast their red-orange blaze across the water.

The sail caught first, bright golden sparks rising to meet the clouds above, then seconds later the boat and its precious cargo, and in moments the flames were licking high above the surface of the water.

He stared forward, unblinking, and watched the immolation—his own personal Ragnarök, small-scale but still as final.

He became dimly aware that Rogers had shifted posture, and that his hands were now folded before him and his head bowed over them. He was reciting in what he probably thought was a voice too low to be heard—save, of course, by Loki’s unnaturally sharp ears—a piece of lyric Midgardian poetry unknown to Loki. Something about a shepherd, and a pasture, and still waters—those latter two not unlike tonight, came the bare thought as he continued to watch the flame, catching the moment that it began to die instead of climb. 

He caught a few more words from Rogers’ lips, spoken with heart-deep fervency; and Loki wondered if they were Shakespeare, one of the few classic Midgardian authors he had found time to read for pleasure. Whatever the source, Loki could almost be touched by Rogers’s sentimental gesture of homage. 

“Restoring one’s soul” and “righteousness” meant little to Loki, as he knew he lacked the former and was full of the latter—but the Valley of the Shadow of Death spoke to him, reminding him of another world, another child. Goodness and mercy, those were also foreign concepts… but he could not deny that he wished them for all his lost beloveds, if not for himself. 

The flames were almost gone now, the sail, the craft, and his unborn son reduced to ash, and the boat itself little more than a charred wafer of soft wood. Then even that spare remnant swamped, water stealing away the last faint flickers of golden sparks and red embers. What little was left slipped below the surface, and all was still and dark once again.

And Loki’s treacherous eyes suddenly filled with moisture—no; _no_ \--but it seemed his heart held one last farewell and would not be denied. Hastily he ducked his head, tilting it to the right so that any wetness instead might escape on the side of his face away from Rogers.

Bad enough that he had displayed this level of emotion to the Allfather and to Thor; Loki would not show this weakness to a man from Midgard. Still, he struggled for control, bitterly damning himself for this flaw. 

Unexpectedly, a strong hand came down on his shoulder, to give one firm, solid squeeze before withdrawing; and Loki virtually heard the unspoken words: “Steady, soldier.” For some odd reason, composure came quickly then, accompanied by a peculiar feeling of lightness, of peace and relief; all falling upon him like the first rain of spring, cool and refreshing. 

He steadied himself and rose, boots squelching in the mud as he shifted, and clambered up the slope back to the path ringing the pond with his chin lifted and head held high. He cast his mind outward, caught the strongly-beating thread of his daughter’s life force those blocks away in the Tower. Her spark was strong—very strong—and he knew she would be birthed into this world soon.

Apace he hurried along the path, eager for the few rooms he could call “home” in this alien realm, Rogers still inexorably following along a few paces behind. But somehow, he found the sound of those steps trailing him back to Stark Tower no longer as annoying as he had before.


	4. Chapter 4

_ _ _ _ _ 

To: Steven.Rogers@us.army.mil  
From: Desiree.Washington@shield.gov  
cc: Nick.Fury@shield.gov

Subject: Report Due (deadline: TODAY)

Good morning Captain Rogers:

Director Fury asked me to remind you that the current Field Assessment for Loki WRT to his physical/mental/emotional fitness for duty due to status: pregnancy is due. He has asked that you please respond before close of business today.

I have attached a copy of the report template for your convenience. You may also sign into the SHIELD intranet and access the online form if you prefer. 

Please send your response directly to Director Fury via secure email. 

If you have forgotten your sign-in and password, or how to respond via the secure interface again, let me know and I will ask the Help Desk to contact you. 

Sincerely, 

Desiree Washington,  
Executive Assistant to Nick Fury  
SHIELD

_ _ _ _ _ 

To: Nick.Fury@shield.gov  
From: Steven.Rogers@us.army.mil

Subject: Report on Loki

Good afternoon Director Fury:

I apologize for the delay in sending this report. I downloaded the form both times Miss Washington emailed it to me, but I couldn’t locate it on my computer afterwards. I had no better luck signing into the intranet. I’ve been waiting for several hours for someone from the Help Desk to call me, but so far no one has. Bruce is currently off site so I can’t ask him for assistance. I am pretty sure that either Tony or Loki (both of them *are* here) would be able to help but I did promise you I would never allow them near my computer, and I keep my promises.

I’m afraid you will have to bear with me and I will do my best to include all important details directly in this email. However, we might want to have a follow-up meeting or phone call, since there are some differences in how things happen here versus on Asgard and I can’t do them justice trying to describe them in writing. (In fact, I don’t think you would believe me if I tried, sir.)

Thank you again for your patience and understanding.

Respectfully,

Steve Rogers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Field Assessment #2 – Loki

*Physical condition*: No discernible changes in Loki’s typical physical appearance. His energy levels appear normal (although per JARVIS, Loki has increased the heat in his suite) and his appetite is stable, extra orders from Whole Foods notwithstanding. 

Loki recently confirmed a twin pregnancy; however, what is most accurately termed a “miscarriage” occurred three days ago, and male fetus was lost. Second fetus—per Loki, female—continues to develop normally and has been described as “healthy” and “strong.” 

*Medical attention required*: No additional intervention or assistance was asked for during or after “miscarriage.” I have advised him that he has the right to appropriate medical assistance, and his response included sarcasm, eye rolling, and seemingly inappropriate laughter, etc. (i.e., not atypical reaction at the concept that he would require any assistance). 

*Mental/Emotional condition*: Loki has surprised everyone with the speed of his mental and emotional recovery post loss of male fetus. Thor confirms Loki’s statement regarding prompt reconciliation of grief within their warrior culture. Resultantly, Loki is not sequestering himself in his suite and has spent some time in common areas. He has been variously described as “cautiously optimistic”, “guardedly content”, or “extra annoying these days.” Constantly talks to/sings to fetus but as this is not uncommon of expectant mothers on Earth, not considered a cause for concern. Of more concern is certain team members’ annoyance at Loki’s sincere attempts to commune with his child; as leader of the Avengers I have instructed one of them to restrict himself to his R&D lab, and the other to spend more time on the archery range, if it bothers them that much. 

*Psych evaluation required*: None required at this time for Loki. 

*Fitness for Duty*: Loki remains capable of performing non-combatant duties. He is currently assisting with a new project assigned this morning by Tony Stark, related to design and construction of a Tower evacuation system should the need arise. (Cooperation between Tony and Loki is being carefully monitored by third parties in the Tower, i.e., JARVIS and I.)

*Recommendation*: Per Loki, pregnancies on Asgard are different from those on Earth, and Loki’s pregnancy is apparently very different from those on Asgard. It is hard for me to predict what will happen next. I recommend we continue on our present course of treating Loki per established protocols and adapt when necessary. 

Respectfully submitted by:

Captain Steven Rogers

_ _ _ _ _ 

 

From: Nick.Fury@shield.gov  
To: Steven.Rogers@us.army.mil

Thanks for your report, Steve, and for getting it to me today despite long odds. I’ll have Desiree c&p it into the online form for you. She’ll be in touch if she needs additional details. I think we can make it work.

The 48-star ASCII flag was a cute touch in your sig file. And I appreciate the attractive .jpg of Betty Grable you somehow sent me; I can see why she was the most popular pin-up in WWII and reminded you boys of what you were fighting for back home. A warning: be careful when you search online in the future for more pin-ups. I highly recommend you keep Google on SafeSearch when you do.

Do us both a favor and leave a couple hours in your schedule open tomorrow. I will be sending over two new computer literacy trainers to work with you on computer basics again. Cap, it is NOT THAT HARD.

Regards,

Nick 

* * *

 

Eight days more and the time had come, and now the labor was hers instead of his. Loki instantly knew the change in her, felt her intent to come forth and the rise in her energy that accompanied it. Carefully he unsealed her from the protection against the palm of his hand, and as her heart began to suddenly and determinedly race, placed her atop the layers of soft flannel sheeting in her birthing bed. Although no spoken words were necessary between them, still he bent close and, soft-voiced, reassured her. “My child, I am right here, waiting for you.”

He was grateful for them both that, unlike his, this labor would be private. No incidental, accidental humiliation before the other residents of the Tower - no Stark to mock, no Barton with sly disrespectful asides. Not even his daughter's uncle would be here to help welcome her. This moment was to be theirs alone, mama and child. 

Even so, he must not overtly intervene or offer help that would allow her to make her way too easily from the encompassing shell. This was her first test: she would build strength through her struggles, learn the value of perseverance through the next hours. Still, some aid was only common sense and would be allowed any creature making its way from pre- _naissance_ to the here-and-now. He steepled his hands over her shell, worked a simple spell to warm and moisten the surrounding air-- _as if I still brooded you against my body_ —and another, crafted more easily than breathing, to guard her from all evils that might attempt to assail her in such a vulnerable moment. It was naught more than the midwives would do on Asgard; and that spell, yes, he had been able to recall and archive from one hearing of it centuries before.

Within the shell, she pressed and flexed, and finally created a tiny pip-hole. Through it, he spied faint motion as she shifted slightly, working to widen the minuscule opening. It would be a labor of many hours—perhaps as long as a full day, he had heard, though for her sake Loki prayed that it would not take that quite that long. 

Time seemed neither suspended nor prolonged while he attended her; it merely passed. The wee breach she made gradually spread to become a crack that finally encircled the egg around its narrow end. The sun that was near its zenith when his daughter’s labor began completed its travels and ceded to the silver of the rising moon. In turn the moon yielded, sliding below the horizon in deference to a new, rose-gold day. 

At last, shortly after dawn, she rested for just a moment; and Loki, holding his breath, carefully slid both hands under the egg and lifted, cradling her once again. He knew when little legs used the last of their strength to unfold and stretch, to adamantly push away the shell… and of a sudden she spilled out, wet and exhausted, rolling into the palm of his hand. 

He caught his breath, entranced as he regarded her for the first time. “Hello,” he at last managed in the barest whisper, awestruck that this wondrous Midgardian infant might be his own. Strangely, he felt nearly as awkward as a first-time mother in her presence.

The end of the eggshell was still stuck to her head, like a tiny cap; he flicked it aside with his little finger, then studied her form. She was small, and pink, with the right amount of limbs and digits, sweet-faced and with soft pale fuzz atop her delicately-formed skull. 

She made a tiny sound, a little more than a squeak, but not quite a whimper. “Shh, shh,” he soothed instinctively, and her face turned toward his.

 _She knows her mama already._

He bowed his head momentarily, to petition the heartless Norns that they might weave the tapestry of her life more kindly than they had woven his. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers.

They were glittering green. 

“Welcome, daughter,” he whispered into her ear, and pressed a kiss to her perfect face.

 

* * *

Lightning crackled above Stark Tower, and thunder rattled its windows, as Thor bounded up the stairs two at a time on his way to Loki’s suite. Thor flinched a little; he knew that the latest strike had actually managed to momentarily disrupt the Tower’s power grid, despite the lightning rod that crowned Stark’s building it as well as the elaborate surge suppression system throughout. He knew he was too excited—how could he not be, at Loki’s news that Thor’s niece had arrived?—and must control himself. He paused on a landing to speak sternly to Mjölnir clenched in one hand, even though he knew he was at fault for allowing his excitement to channel through the hammer. 

He thought of Loki’s response should he come bursting into his brother’s rooms in this state. It would not be… welcoming. And his wee niece would no doubt be frightened of him for life should her first acquaintance with him resemble an encounter with a rampaging bane-ox. So he made a sincere effort to gather himself, and took the rest of the stairs as they were meant to be mounted, one at a time.

Loki’s door, as promised, was slightly ajar. Thor opened it fully, then crept through it carefully, anticipating a prank of some sort—it was, he reminded himself, Loki’s nature to trick, to obfuscate—but no disaster befell him as he enter the foyer. _Indeed, this is an occasion._

“Brother?” he called quietly, hesitating.

“Here,” came the soft response from Loki’s private bedchambers; and Thor tiptoed toward the sacrosanct room, pausing in the doorway. 

Loki, clad in his black dressing-gown, was seated cross-legged on his bed, back propped against the draperied wall, and nestled in a mountain of pillows. He looked tired—sleepless—yet perhaps in this moment as fully content as Thor had seen him in at least two centuries. A fine green wrap, with some of the most alarmingly powerful runes Thor had ever seen in use stitched upon it in gold thread, crisscrossed Loki’s body. Within was a small bolster to prop up the wee infant, who was lightly covered with a lacelike blanket. Thor could just glimpse the motion of a tiny body stretching and squirming within her mama’s embrace.

“Well?” Loki’s tongue still held an edge, albeit a mild one. “Mean you to wait all day for an even more official invitation?” He cleared his throat, his tone a mix of mockery and fondness. “Thor Odinson, I command you to enter and greet your niece.”

Pure joy split Thor’s face. He raised Mjölnir high in a salute, then swiftly went to one knee to pay homage to the newborn child. His words were formal, yet from no written rite save that scribed on his warrior’s heart.

“Welcome, Princess, daughter of my beloved brother Loki. Unto you, I pledge my fullest honor, as befits the newest member of the royal family of A—”

He caught his mistake the moment the first syllable began to leave his lips; but he corrected himself so rapidly he prayed Loki had not noticed how he had nearly misspoken. “—all the Nine Worlds. I promise to guide, guard and protect you throughout your life. By the power granted to me by mighty Mjölnir, this, Princess, with all my heart, I promise unto thee.”

The hammer obeyed his will now, and hair-thin lightning, supple as the thread it followed, leaped forth to swiftly race along the same paths as Loki’s powerful embroidery. Loki jerked, eyes going wide, and reflexively started a countermove—but then just as suddenly relaxed as the intent of Thor’s gesture became clear. With a pass of his hand, Loki accepted the magic, and the atmosphere about them charged with power, the stitches glowing with white heat for a long moment until at last the light quietly dispersed, leaving a sharp yet fresh scent in the air. Thor bowed his head in an obeisance until it passed, then at last dared to lift his face.

Loki did not look displeased, although his eyes seemed now somehow distant and reflective. Instead, there was something in them that Thor could not remember having seen in them since Loki had looked at him when he was yet a child. 

“So.” Loki brusquely broke the silence just as it threatened discomfort to them both, and beckoned to Thor with a curl of deft fingers. “Come forward should you wish to see your niece.”

“I do.” Beaming, he stepped close enough, bending over the bundle Loki held so close. And in that first glimpse, Thor lost his heart to his tiny niece. “May I hold her?” he whispered.

“No. Not yet. She is too tiny and fragile for any but her mama—”and Thor thought if words could glow, these would—“to handle her now. But no doubt she will grow quickly, if she follows any of the bloodlines which are in her heritage.”

Indeed, she was quite tiny, dwarfed by Loki’s pale hand still hovering so protectively over her, but of course that diminutive stature was to be expected from the size of the egg from whence she had come. Thor could not hide his smile as he regarded her so carefully. “Brother, I think she resembles you.”

“No,” came the dry response. “I would say it is a fair bet she resembles her father more.”

Thor dared to reach out and stroke a fingertip along the top of her tiny head, which wobbled atop her thin neck. Little eyes squinched, then with a bat of feathery black lashes, opened reluctantly to make the briefest of contact with Thor’s. Just as quickly, they closed again, and she seemed to sleep. “But her eyes—they are as green as yours. Nay, greener.” 

“You seem,” Loki observed with obvious caution, “much more impressed with her than any of my previous children.”

Thor’s answer held equal care. “You… did not give me much chance to enjoy a relationship with them. And they in their turn were not quite so tender and cuddly and… small. I appreciate this, brother.”

Loki looked away. “This charity is purely due to our current proximity. It would be difficult if not impossible to keep you away from her since we share a domicile. Thus, I allow you to play the role that you may wish in involving yourself in the life of your niece.” He rubbed his eyes, seeming wearier of body than of mind.

“I am grateful,” Thor managed, heart too full in this moment for him to do anything but change the subject. “Also, she is near are bald as you were, as an infant.”

Genuine affront—and disbelief—blossomed in Loki’s face. “I was not!” he claimed hotly. “I’ve seen the paintings of us as babes. My hair was grander than yours, long black curls nearly to my shoulders from a very young age. It was only later that Mother— _Frigga_ —cut it.” 

Thor chuckled. “You defaced the portraits, over and over again, in your fury at your scant locks, when my hair—“he made a dramatic gesture, and from Loki’s expression, he very nearly forgot himself and laughed—“was so envied and admired by our mother’s attendants. Father finally had the portraits repainted to your satisfaction, with the intent of changing them later, but I think it amused him so he never bothered.”

Thor reached out to boldly pat the top of Loki’s head, far too fondly remembering the tiny tyke Odin had brought back with him, and determinedly not letting himself remember the many actions that came… after. “But your hair grew quickly, brother. And her crowning glory will be worthy of both Asgard and Midgard.” 

“Nay, of all the Worlds.” The effect of Loki’s haughty lift of his chin was spoiled when he was forced to stifle a sudden yawn, and Thor took that as his cue. 

“I shall leave, brother, and let the two of you rest. Her entry into this realm has been taxing upon you both. “

“No, that is not necessary.” Loki carefully eased himself and his precious burden nearly prone amidst the nest of pillows. “Please stay— _quietly_ —in your service to us, and keep us safe while we rest.” Peremptorily he closed his eyes, as if willing sleep to come; and like a charm, within moments it had. 

Thor took a moment to find a blanket and carefully spread it over Loki up to where his arms were crossed around the green wrap and the little bundle within. He dared another soft touch to the sleepy infant’s face, and she made a faint sound, nuzzling against his finger. 

Loki started to snore, very softly.

Taking a seat, with his palm resting reassuringly on Mjölnir’s haft, he wished this sense of family could stay between them forever. 

* * *

Steve would have sworn it was impossible for Loki’s suite to be filled with so much light and peace. Even at the best of times, let alone a little over a week ago when it reflected the nightmare of loss, the rooms wore an aura of tension and desperation, a grim reflection of their unwilling tenant.

But today this space was as clean and fresh as a nursery should be, smelling of lemon and tea and vanilla, readily welcoming the new life it had greeted early that morning. And now, finally—after spending most of the day filling out more SHIELD paperwork while he waited—it was finally Steve’s turn to meet Loki’s child. 

Loki’s Project Room was the venue; as usual when in that space, Loki was seated at his worktable, although the computer was off, and the table had been cleared and made more orderly. What Steve could only categorize at a quick glance as “baby things” filled the spaces normally cluttered with tools and scrawled papers: tissues, wipes, little eye-droppers, a canister of some kind of formula. 

Thor had escorted him in, and now he hovered just behind Loki, his hammer at the ready in a ceremonial posture. Steve easily recognized the role Thor was currently serving: honor guard.

Again he waited patiently, now for an invitation to come forward to see the baby—he couldn’t catch sight of it from where he stood—but Loki was absorbed in attending to it, head bent deeply over it. And he took his own sweet time to finally look up from the bundle cradled in his arms to acknowledge Steve’s presence. 

At last he spoke—“Thank you for coming”—in a hushed, formal tone. His face was eerily relaxed, Steve saw, and he carried little if any tension in that normally taut body. 

He responded easily, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” and meant it. He himself was relaxed in their presence, and he wondered how that was possible; he would swear that Loki and Thor in the same room seemed to sometimes literally set off a negative charge between them that made everyone else uneasy. The explanation for the difference was of course obvious: the baby. _She's going to be such a great influence on all of us. We need a little bit of softness and tenderness in this Tower._

“I brought you something—well, us, really. I thought we could use a little celebration in honor of her arrival.” He reached into the tote he’d brought to withdraw two chilled bottles and a set of champagne flutes.

“Ah.” Loki’s smile blossomed and he leaned forward a bit. Steve took the opportunity to try to peer over the top of the green wrap, but Loki’s hand, cupped and guarding what was certainly a very small infant, blocked his vision. _Later, then._

“I see that Stark has laid in some very fine liquor of late.” Loki’s grin was for a moment pure mischief and completely lacking in malice. “I’m sure he gave you permission for us to celebrate with this bottle of Dom Perignon Rose.”

“He did. He wasn’t really thrilled about it, especially when I told him he wasn’t invited to the party. Plus he’s pretty mad about having to inspect all the Tower systems after Thor’s storm this morning.” Loki snorted a little at that. “But he gave us—well, me—his blessing, as long as Thor goes to talk to him after about a new baffling system.”

“What?” Thor looked up from ripping the foil from the sealed bottle, then with one quick flick of his thumb, popped the cork.

“We’ll talk later,” Steve began, at the same time Loki spoke up. “Alas, for all your courtesy I cannot drink at this time.”

“I figured as much. Plus it’s a waste for me, so… that’s why I us brought this.” He uncapped the bottle of Loki’s favorite fresh cider and poured them each a glass. Thor, helping himself, topped off his flute with a hefty pour of the Dom. “Here’s to the newest member of the family,” Steve announced, and raised his glass.

* * *

Three more pours each and six completely shattered but fortunately very cheap champagne flutes later, Loki finally got down to business. “I have a special role for you,” Loki explained, capturing Steve’s eyes with his intense green gaze that confirmed more than his words the importance of what he would be asking. 

“Where is your shield?” Thor interrupted, in what was probably supposed to be a stage whisper. He looked a little dismayed… and a little smug too, an odd combination that Steve supposed could be due to the champagne. 

“In the Battle Readiness Station, where we all normally keep our weapons and our uniforms,” he responded uneasily, suddenly anxious that he might have violated an arcane bit of Asgard etiquette.

Loki cut off that thought immediately, with an eyeroll plus a contemptuous toss of his head at Thor. “Thor. Listen again. I have asked him here as the Midgardian known as Steve Rogers, not as the good soldier who serves his country and the world as Captain America.” Did Loki suppress a shudder at that concept? “The shield represents that side of his persona, and I have no use for that. I have called for the man.”

“My hammer is mightier than his shield anyway,” was Thor’s contrary response, this time successfully under his breath so Steve—and Loki—could just catch it. 

Huh, so there _was_ a little of the usual fraternal tension there. “So what’s on your mind, Loki?” 

That focused stare came back to him, intense, unyielding, and unsettling, eye to eye. Steve took care not to break it this time, answering back with the gravity such a silent inquiry deserved. That was the purpose, he realized, to make a final judgment. And of an instant, he knew that Loki had made a decision.

“There are customs upon this world with which I have become acquainted during my residence here. I have read of a role whereby an… _associate_ of some uncommon intimacy is asked to serve as mentor and guardian to a newborn child.”

“That’s right,” he said, shifting a little uncomfortably. Loki couldn’t possibly be asking him to…. Could he?

“I have thought long and hard on all those I have met during my Midgardian incarceration. With the majority of them, I would not see fit to share a cup of coffee. There is one exception, however, whom I find worthy.” Loki’s tone changed, became commanding. “As Thor is my daughter’s guardian throughout the Nine Worlds, I ask that you serve as her 'godparent' upon this one.”

“Loki, are you sure you’ve read enough about this? Have you really thought it through?”

“What makes you think I haven't?” Loki’s thin mouth compressed in displeasure at the challenge.

“That's a big honor, Loki,” he pointed out, “plus a lot of responsibility.”

“Are you daring to tell me you will not—”

“—You need not worry, Steve Rogers, that by any response you may usurp my role in serving my brother and my niece. My role will always be greater than yours.” Thor sounded downright possessive and that was a first for Steve—a Thor who was jealous of _him_. Maybe a baby was going to be a greater complication to life in the Tower than he thought. 

"Thor, again, this I explained to you," Loki sighed impatiently. "She is of all worlds, but resides here, thus we must take advantage of the customs specific to this realm. Also, Steve Rogers has not your royal blood. Each role you serve is of equal greatness.”

Steve’s decision turned in a heartbeat as well. Perhaps Loki’s ability to embrace something from another world, plus involve someone who had evolved from a personal enemy to one who must have become, in some sense, a friend, marked a true and significant change in him. Nick Fury and SHIELD would be very happy to hear of this; wasn’t that what they were looking for in Earth’s Most Reviled, evidence of a change of heart? And besides, how could Earth’s citizens continue to hate a Loki who was a mother? This could only be positive. “I’ll do it. I’m… thrilled, to be honest. And very proud.” 

‘Then pledge yourself.” Loki said simply, looking down at the babe still cradled in his arms. 

Steve didn’t have time to remember any liturgy—and that wasn’t what this was about anyway—so he simply placed his hand over his heart and said, “Loki, I promise I will always watch over your daughter.”

“Thank you. Now please come meet her.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He closed the space between them as Loki’s cupped hands carefully rose from within the elaborate green and gold wrap, to at last show off the tiny infant cradled warmly within them. 

“Is she not beautiful?” Thor said softly as Steve took his first look.

Steve blinked. He took a second look, and then a third. 

_Well, there goes the status report I almost finished on the birth of Loki’s daughter, because I can never, ever, put this down in writing. _

“Well?” Loki asked softly, beaming at him like any new mother.

Small and pink and maybe even fuzzy in the right places, that he had expected from Loki’s child. But not the rest: the tiny claws on four-toed feet, the vestigial wings, the spindly neck and bobbing head and above all, the _beak_. And he couldn’t keep from blurting out, “That's a pigeon baby."


	5. Chapter 5

“It’s all a magic act, just to mess with us.” Clint settled himself on the couch in the Level 3 lounge, moving slowly and carefully so as to not tweak his back and elbow again. Amazing how much damage a sole Doombot could do when it malfunctioned, spiraling out of control and tumbling towards earth, and then self-destructing about six feet above the pavement. The resultant shockwave hadn’t done those of them close enough to feel it any favors. “Either that, or he’s completely deluded—went crazy, picked a couple of eggs up off a ledge, and made them his own little family. Or maybe,” came a sudden third possibility, “he’s faking all of it so he can get out of his team obligations.”

“A little magic shielding out there when things got hairy today probably wouldn’t have hurt,” Bruce agreed amicably as he fired up the lounge’s laptop. “Steve, Tony, why don’t I get started on the data download and analysis?”

Steve, on the comm to SHIELD headquarters, held up one finger in the universal “hang on for a minute” gesture, while Tony was suddenly no longer to be found. Bruce shrugged, sat down, and started to work anyway. 

Clint refused to let go of the conversation that had started on the long drive (or short flight, in Tony’s case) back from Yonkers as a way for everyone both to dish as much dirt as they had on their God of Mischief, as well as distract themselves from the fact that this hadn’t been their best skirmish. He went on, “It’s been a week since that ‘daughter’ arrived and Loki hasn’t even been out of his room. You’d think he’d be out showing her off if she was for real.”

“He’s been out,” Natasha murmured, head falling forward as Thor’s strong hands massaged the back of her neck. Clint wasn’t altogether sure he liked that, but as Thor and Bruce were the only ones not suffering from any injuries, and Bruce’s hands were already busy on the keyboard, he supposed that meant ol’ Thunderhead would have to be the one to take on impromptu medic duties. Nat continued, “I ran into him in the kitchen late, the night before last. He was taking greens and bits of chopped egg out of the refrigerator. He didn’t say anything to me, but it didn’t look like he was making his own dinner.” She brushed her bangs away from her eyes, casting her gaze up to meet Clint’s. “I think it’s real. Well,” she amended, “I think it’s a real bird, at least.”

“But he didn’t have it with him?”

“No, and I didn’t ask, since both of us were being invisi—oh, Thor, right there, again. I can _feel_ the knot breaking up.” Clint definitely didn’t like the almost purring tone she was using in response to Thor’s deep tissue manipulations, or the smile that blossomed on Thor’s face at her appreciation of his technique. 

Steve finally took the headset out of his ear and peeled back his cowl. Clint noticed that there was a nasty burn across the back of his neck and wondered how so much heat had gotten through the Cap-suit. Probably shrapnel that landed just-so and didn’t get shaken off right away. “We have one hour to decompress before Director Fury wants a debriefing. Are we all sure no one needs _professional_ medical attention?” The divot of concern between his eyes deepened, the line of his mouth turning ever-so-slightly down as he obviously catalogued all the scrapes and bumps and bruises on two-thirds of the team. 

“Nah.” Tony limped in from the kitchen, two bags of frozen food in his hands. He too settled onto the couch, his swollen knees popping as he bent to sit. Tony swore under his breath, then carefully placed the bag of peas on his left knee, the vegetable medley on his right, then sank back. “Nothing some ice, aspirin and a few beers won’t fix. Someone bring me the last?” he asked hopefully. “Anyone?”

After a long silence, Steve replied, “I’ll get you something. Hey, is there any burn ointment on this level?”

“In the drawer beside the stove—hey, grease spatters hurt, you know!” Tony added in response to the more than one smirk which bloomed at his answer.

“Clint Barton.” Thor had stopped his ministrations to Natasha’s neck, and now he met Clint’s eyes in a somber gaze. “I assure you that my niece is real. Her form may not be that of her mother’s, but she is without a doubt Loki’s daughter.”

“No fucking way,” Clint said bluntly.

“Actually, while our data crunches, I’m trying to check the possibility of that….” Bruce was playing with something else now, pulling with a hand gesture a multicolored holographic helix from the lounge laptop and beginning to manipulate it. Tony’s eyes sparked and he looked very much as if he wished to go play too; but one attempt at rising sent him back against the couch cushions, cursing both his knees and, more mildly, Steve for the clear glass of ice water he placed in Tony’s hand. 

Bruce was lying about the former, Clint was sure; JARVIS probably had everything compiled, categorized, and spit back out within thirty seconds of the request No, Bruce was just wasting time dicking around with Loki theories, like they all were. 

And now Steve added to that conversation. “Clint, I’ve seen her too, plus I’ve spent time with her and Loki.”

“It,” Clint interrupted sourly. Steve chastised him with a disappointed look. 

“ _She_ has green eyes. And eyelashes. And the sounds she makes… they aren’t just squeaks anymore. It’s like she’s trying to talk. Trust me. No pigeon I’ve ever seen looks like that or acts like that.”

“And how would you know that, Rogers?” Natasha rode in on her devil’s advocate high-horse; Clint was pleased at how she was siding with the late-night conclusions he’d been sharing with her. 

“Bucky had a loft for a while. He raised Show Kings, plus some rollers and tumblers.”

“And how often could you go there? With your asthma and all back in those days?” Clint pointed out.

“Not often,” Steve admitted, “and when I did I had to wear a mask. But I helped him pair up some birds for breeding and I got to see a lot of squabs—baby pigeons,” he corrected. Probably wasn’t comfortable thinking of Loki’s “daughter” as something that could be served with a side of new potatoes and steamed asparagus. “Believe me, no pigeon has eyes or acts like that. I held enough while Bucky banded them to know.”

“And what’s Loki really good at?” Clint pressed. “Illusions, isn’t it? How hard do you think it would be for Loki to make you see what he wants you to see?”

“Loki is currently restrained from the performance of his illusions, Clint Barton.” Not only was Thor frowning, he was actually looking a little sad. Because it must really suck, Clint told himself, to have a niece with feathers.

“Is there a family resemblance?” Tony unexpectedly threw his contribution into the mix. “Not that it’s always proof of heritage,” he quickly backpedaled, and Clint swallowed a chortle; that story about a little, dark-haired, dead-ringer-for-Stark girl showing up at Reception with an angry mommy apparently wasn’t as apocryphal as he’d been led to believe. “You need DNA for that; fortunately the test is pretty fool-proof. Never mind. Bad example. Let’s just say I still don’t have to pay any child support.”

“JARVIS,” Bruce murmured, “could you get me some DNA test results…?”

“Right away, Dr. Banner.”

Clint stood up, flexing the stiffness out of his back and easing his elbow straight, then turned to face everyone in the room; a lot easier than swiveling his head around like he was watching a tennis tournament. “Look, someone go get me an egg and I can show you exactly how he palmed it to make it look like he coughed it up at the table last month.”

Universally, all the eyes on him widened, Thor’s most of all. Steve gave him a Significant Look; Tony cut through the subtle bullshit to slash an index finger across his throat

And Clint knew. “Loki’s in the room now, isn’t he?”

“Indeed I am,” came the cool, knife-edged voice, and Clint turned to see Loki in very nice robes topped with an embroidered wrap standing just a few feet behind him. “Please pardon my impropriety, if you all will, for taking advantage of a rare moment when all are assembled to bring my daughter down to introduce her to all of you. It saved us the effort of calling yet another inconvenient Team Conference. Plus, I thought it might make the day a bit brighter, considering that your adventure this afternoon ended less than satisfactorily. Or admirably, for that matter.”

“Nice words from someone who wasn’t even there,” was Clint’s retort.

“I was tending to my child.” Loki was aloof and self-righteous now, chin lifted, mouth thinned. “She is yet too young to be left alone for longer than a few minutes. I regret that I cannot call a babysitting service to have her looked after.”

“Veterinarians board, you know.”

“So.” Loki’s tone went as cold as what Clint had heard about his real heritage—all blue and frosty and ready to chill you to the bone. “You do not believe that this precious youngling is truly my blood?

“No.” Clint’s voice was flat, and damn that frigid bloodline. “I don’t.”

“As you command proof, then….Daughter, come greet the legendary Eye of the Hawk.”

There was motion from within the wrap, and a moment later a fuzzy head peeked over the top. The tiny bird craned to look around the room until her eyes—and yes, they were as green as Steve had said, instead of an honest orange or red like the endless flocks that spun above the streets of Manhattan and far too often interfered with Clint’s sightline—landed on him. She made an uncertain sound— _it couldn’t possibly have been “mama”, could it?_ —and in response Loki lifted the little thing from the wrap and cupped her in the palm of his hand.

She was covered with black pin feathers, prickly as a hedgehog. At the end of some of the longer pins, bits of actual feather had started to emerge, like fluffy little jet-black flags. She wiggled herself forward, until her oversized pink feet latched around Loki’s index finger; she was just old enough to perch. _Good for her— it—whatever._

The baby pigeon tilted her head, stereotypically bird; but then her eyes moved up, down, to each side, to take him in. _Birds can’t do that. This is wrong, just wrong._ “I don’t t’ink I like you,” she finally pronounced in a tiny, yet clear and piping, voice. 

“So it speaks,” Natasha put in, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. At least it looked like Thor had stopped with the impromptu massage therapy.

“ _She_.” The correction came complete with a dark and murderous glare. 

“It.” Clint was thrilled to cover Natasha’s back. He leaned in close to the bird, not caring if he was intimidating the thing, because it was a baby _pigeon_ for Chrissake, and just how badly could he intimidate a stupid bird? He met her eye to eye, speaking low. “And why not?”

“’Cause you are not nice!” And with a strike fast as lightning— _it must run in the family_ —she sharply pecked him in the very corner of his eye.

“Ow!” He instantly drew back out of the strike zone, and slammed the palm of his hand protectively over his eye. Good God, everything was wet and more liquid was freely running down his cheek. Was he actually bleeding?—no, just reflexive tears from the irritation. His other eye was leaking in sympathy. Fuck, he probably looked like he was crying. 

“Daughter!” Loki sounded genuinely aghast, although that damn bastard, was that a smile ghosting over his mouth? “Aggressive behavior such as this is not acceptable against an enemy, save in battle. I’ve told you—”

“Just fucking stop, Loki.” Clint snapped out. Nat had ambled over, and now she firmly caught his chin in her thumb and forefinger, turning his face toward her so she could take a quick look at his eye. He wrenched away from her iron-like grip, far from done in this conversation. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing, or how you’re doing it—ventriloquism maybe?—but—”

“Aye, my brother is a fine ventriloquist!” Thor tossed into the conversation. He looked ready to chug a post-battle horn of mead in celebration of the day—and it would be a Thursday, wouldn’t it? “He would be up to the task should this style of dissembling be required.” 

Loki’s voice leaked out through gritted teeth. “May I note that your words are not helping, Uncle Thor?” 

“Oh, I did not mean _now_. You must recall the time when you made the court think that the All-Father was issuing drunken commands contrary to what he had said just moments before—”

“Later, _Uncle_.” Loki’s voice was pinched with warning.

Thor blinked, belatedly realizing his inadvertent damage, and attempted to ameliorate. “Clint Barton, I assure you my niece has her own voice. It is not a projection thrown from her mama’s throat.”

“T‘ank you, Uncle.” That little piping again, eliding the “th” sound. Clint heard some sort of resonance, or an echo, behind her words—

\--Exactly like a pigeon cooing. _Dammit_. Loki was either very good…

Or this was real. Why not? Enough crazy shit like jetski-riding aliens and exploding Doombots and hammers from the sky and impossible SHIELD vehicles—just for a start—had fallen into his life over the past few years for him to not accept a talking pigeon born of a psycho excuse for a god. 

_I give up._

“Daughter.” Loki had lifted her to eye level to speak directly to her; she—it—whatever—already looked abashed, little head tucked down. “Now apologize to Barton for your attack—”

“I don’t need a fucking bird to tell me it’s sorry—“

“ _She_ \--”

“Whatever!” Clint stalked away, Nat moving with him. The rest of them… well, Steve was shaking his head and looking uncomfortable at the disorder in the ranks. Tony was laughing, while Thor stared across the room at his pigeon-niece with love in his eyes. Bruce was trying to stay as uninvolved as possible, going into his cool-calm-and-clear yoga breathing pattern. And here Clint was with Nat dabbing at his eye with a tissue, peeling his lid up and assessing the damage. “I think your cornea is scratched. We’re going to have to drop by Urgent Care and get this looked at later.”

And JARVIS took that moment to announce, “Dr. Banner, the sample pigeon DNA is ready for your comparison against Loki’s.”

“Shit, JARVIS.” Tony’s eyes went wide. “Are we going to have to go over the whole concept of ‘timing is everything’ again?”

Bruce’s spine had stiffened, while Loki’s back arched as if he was about to launch himself across the room. In all probability, the only thing holding him back was the little bird still held in his hands, for fear of damage being done to her in any attack. “DNA? You are comparing my DNA? To what?”

“It’s a feasibility check.” Bruce’s eyes slid away from everyone’s as they watched him, to focus on how the bamboo floorboards intersected in one corner. His steady breathing pattern began to destabilize. “Whether your DNA could possibly be compatible with that of _Columbidae_. It actually looks… probable, believe it or not.” The helical hologram collapsed in on itself and vanished as Bruce snapped shut the laptop. 

“How did you get hold of my DNA?” Clint knew that cold menace and it sent goosebumps up his spine, even as he wondered how Loki knew about DNA in the first place. _Easy—Wikipedia_. Things would be a lot easier if they just blocked Loki’s access to the ‘net.

Carefully, tenderly, Loki resituated his pigeon daughter into the green embroidered wrap, and whispered something to her. But metaphorical blood was in his eyes as he stalked toward Bruce’s work-station.

Tony, groaning, started to rise, then thought better of it as he remembered he wasn’t in his armor and his knees were presently on the fucked-up side. Nat tensed and crept to work her way around the perimeter of the room, unnoticed. Steve’s Cap-voice, simultaneously calming and commanding, cut through the rising buzz to warn, “Loki—halt! Right now! Bruce, head for the Quiet Room and—”

“What’s going on in here?”

Pepper’s unexpected voice slashed through the moment, shattering it. For a split second everyone froze in place—and how many had guilty looks in their eyes?—and then equanimity was as restored as it ever was among their happy little group in Stark Tower.

There was a concerned frown on Pepper’s face as she crossed from the elevator to the lounge. “I heard about the Doombot and cancelled my afternoon meetings to make sure everything is all right and everyone is okay. And I rush back to…” She waved a hand back and worth at their motley assemblage. “… _this_?” She swept to Tony, shaking her head at the thawing bags of vegetables he had pressed back against his knees. “There are actual cold packs in the freezer, Tony. I put them there for you. We talked about that.”

“Pepper…” he started, but she was having none of it. “Next time. I’ll remember next time. And I’ll throw these away.”

“Good. Because they’ve turned into mush by now.” Her eyes swept over everyone, with what must be the expression she used as CEO of Stark Industries to cow not only the Board but anyone else who might stand against her will. “I think everyone needs to go get a shower, change clothes, take care of anything that’s been hurt—Clint, what’s wrong with your eye?—and then sit down for a nice meal.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll order. What’s everyone wa--?”

“Hello.” That little voice again, even curious and sweet now, made Clint clench his jaw.

He and Pepper both turned toward it, and Pepper seemed to notice Loki for the first time—likely, since he did have a habit of gliding silently back to the darkest corner and somehow managing to not be seen when he didn’t want to be. The bird was peering again over the edge of the wrap, insistent enough that she resisted her mama’s effort to press her back down and out of sight. 

“Loki!” Pepper’s voice pitched just a little higher, and she glided toward his side. “Is that your daughter?” 

“Yes,” he answered flatly, but any residual murder in his eyes bled away at her attention to his bird-daughter. 

“She’s beautiful.” Pepper smiled up at him, warm and disarming, one hand on his forearm, and Loki’s entire aspect mellowed, softened. “I have a gift for you—for her—but I haven’t had the chance to give it to you. Would you like to go up to your suite and I’ll meet you there with it in a few minutes?”

“We will be honored by your visit, Ms. Potts, and by your gift.”

“Well, babies need a lot of things—even if what she’s going to need isn’t typical, you know There’s a store I found called Foy’s, and they have just _everything_ ….” She gently steered him from the lounge, still talking softly, with Loki nodding at her words and finally, actually, smiling. 

_Smooth, Pepper, smooth._

Steve looked abashed and, despite the uniform, decidedly un-Captain-like in this moment. _Leadership sucks sometimes_. “I think Ms. Potts has some good ideas there—why don’t we—”

JARVIS—of course—interrupted. “Captain Rogers, Director Fury is on the line. The screens in the Conference Room are live for your debriefing.”

And Steve sighed—at least he didn’t say the word that was on Clint’s lips—hastily thanked JARVIS, then without another sound, simply motioned the team to follow him into the Conference Room where they were no doubt due for one of Fury’s patented post-mission reamings. Maybe Bruce had enough data ready to deflect a bit of it from any failure Fury might try to pin on them for the exploding Doombot, and it wouldn’t be so bad, and they could get all cleaned up and then order in tonight like Pepper had promised. _Maybe barbecue. Barbecue would be nice_. 

But what Clint was sure of was that in the future he was going to have a few words with Loki and his daughter, what with revenge being a dish that was best served cold and all that. Of course.

* * *

“I was told I could register a birth here.”

The clerk at the counter in City Hall frowned at Loki from behind the partition. “No, sir, not really. Almost all live births are registered electronically now, by either the hospital or birthing center where delivery occurred. If you think the birth didn’t get registered somehow, then I recommend you contact--”

“No. My daughter was a… ‘home birth,’ as you Midgardians term it. There were no medical personnel involved who would have filed such an important document. Thus I am here today.”

“Your midwife should have been able to file it—”

“Neither was there a midwife,” he countered. Barely a minute dealing with this obtuse public servant, and already his patience was waning. “I helped to bring my daughter into this world by my own efforts.”

She nodded. “I’m impressed, honest—not a lot of fathers can deliver their own child—but you still really can’t just walk into here—”

“I’m not the _father_.”

The clerk was obviously taken aback for a moment by that statement, but continued. “I’m sorry. I can give you a form to fill out and I think there’s a mailing address on it for you to use, if that helps any.”

Resistance had been anticipated, and Loki had the ammunition to fight it. He compressed his lips and instead extended a paper to her via the small pass-through. “Please read this and then perhaps you can see fit to assist us.” 

Loki glanced down into the green wrap, where his daughter still peacefully snoozed in an afternoon nap; he hoped he could complete this task and return to Stark Tower before her next feeding. It was difficult enough to feed her from his mouth when they were seated upon his bed, she had become so excitable when she was hungry; it would be well-nigh impossible—not to mention potentially inappropriate, from what he had read of the politics of nursing infants—should he be forced to attempt it in public. 

The clerk read through the SHIELD document bearing the signature of Director Nick Fury as well as the mayor of New York City, taking her time to digest the words upon it. In fact, she took so long she must have read it twice. Then she quietly called for a supervisor, lowered her head, and nervously drummed her fingers on the counter while she waited for assistance. 

Loki sighed, scarcely reining in his irritation and impatience now. Against his chest, his daughter stirred, answering his sigh with a tiny peep of her own. _Ten days old now, and you are yet to be properly named. Your godfather told me of the ceremony called “christening”, but no, such beliefs I will not have imposed upon you. This naming will serve in its stead. A pity we must resort to such a bureaucratic process to do so._

When he looked up, a gray-haired woman had taken the place of the clerk behind the partition. She too took her turn at interpreting such a simple straightforward document, then at last commented, “So, people in high places want us to make an exception for you, Mr… _Loki_ , citing ‘cultural sensitivity’?”

“Indeed.” He barely managed to keep his equanimity at what seemed to be her obvious contempt for the importance of naming his daughter.

She frowned, whether from realization of his identity or from the aberration from routine, he didn’t know. “Well, since it’s so important to Mr. Mayor, let’s fill out the paperwork and get you what you pulled strings for.”

“I pulled no strings,” he announced. And technically, he was correct; it was Steve Rogers who had done so, for the sake of his shamefully as-yet-unnamed goddaughter.

She produced a form; he caught a glimpse of “Registration of Live Birth” printed on the front before she flipped it to the back, her pen hovering over the section reading “Father.” “Name?”

“You are filling out the wrong section.” 

The pen hesitated on its way to the printed page. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

Just how dense could public servants be? _Cattle, all cattle. I still think I’m right about “freedom.”_ “ _I_ birthed her. I am not her father.”

“That’s just not possible—” And then she must have remembered another adjuration in the letter from SHIELD—to take the information Loki might offer at face value, and respond without unnecessary questioning. So she simply paused, pursing her mouth, and finally asked instead, “ _Mother’s_ name.”

What name to give had ever been the problem since he had become a prisoner of Midgard. “Loki of Asgard” was no longer an option; he liked “Loki of Midgard” less, and his last choice ever would be “Loki of Jotunheim.” Nor did he wish to use either “Odinson”, as Thor pridefully persisted; and “Laufeyson” no longer held the twist-the-knife irony he had once invested it with. 

He had briefly meditated with Steve Rogers on using one of the other names history had granted him, but was talked out of either “Silvertongue” or “Liesmith” as casting a wrong impression. A pastiche that sounded quite pretty to Loki’s ears—“Silversmith”—had to be discarded when he found out it was an actual Midgardian occupation, and he did not wish to be mistaken for a simple artisan when his gifts and skills were far greater than jewelry-crafting. 

So here he was again, facing the same dilemma, until of a sudden he came to the perfect conclusion and let his new name roll off his tongue.

“ _Really_?” the supervisor asked, then shook her head and wrote down what he had dubbed himself.

The rest of it went quite well, actually, and the entire form was filled out within fifteen minutes. There were no snags when he paid for the transaction with the debit card he had only been recently issued. And before long, in his hands was the document he sought—albeit a temporary copy on yellow paper—making it official: a birth certificate from the State of New York, naming one Loki Smith of Manhattan as mother to Featherling Lokisdottir.


	6. Chapter 6

A scuttling at his window—

_\--claws scraping against glass; rapid peck-peck-peck resounding through his rooms; the sinister, deliberate brush of stiff feathers—_

\--and in an instant Loki was awake from a sleep that was rarely restful and on his feet, posture defensive. The mild magic allowed him this time of night flickered along his fingertips, then pooled ready in his palms.

He quickly scanned his room, confirming that it had not been breached. _Good._ Featherling lay sleeping in her princess bed—another gift from Miss Potts—peaceful and undisturbed. He relaxed infinitesimally, but not wholly; it was simply easier and better to investigate when one’s nerves were not thrumming.

He stepped quietly into the foyer, the marble floor cold beneath his feet, and froze as the sounds started up again, echoing from his Project Room. Something attacking from outside… something… _familiar_?

He closed his eyes, orienting himself to something deep within, something scarcely remembered because the majority of it had been so mundane. He _forced_ the recall; then dropped his head, smiled, and let loose a soft snort of laughter. 

_A warm night, and Loki was sick of the sterile, recycled, artificially-cooled air in Stark Tower. Staring accusatory daggers at the quaint controlling device for the internal weather—a thermostat, Stark had loftily informed him, as if he’d invented it like everything else in this egotistically enormous steel cocoon of his—did as little for his mood as it did for the artificial climate._

_For Loki had found out immediately afterward that the thermostat was a decoy, and that JARVIS controlled the climate; and for certain people, JARVIS was not permitted to deviate from the programming of their personal quarters beyond the limited parameters that had been pre-set for them. And he didn’t suppose that it made Loki feel any better to know that both Thor and, surprisingly, Banner, had the same inconvenience laid upon them as well._

_But there were indeed other ways around an AI’s programming. An experimental flick of Loki’s fingers, coupled with a light spell, and the window glass loosened itself from its framework so that he might lift it out. The warm air that wafted in was not the balm he expected, though, as it brought with it all the stenches of the so-called “civilized” city, and even this high above street level it still carried the sounds of the unceasing motorized traffic—sirens, horns, squeals of tires and the rumble of revving engines._

_But no, as anathema to him as all this was, it was better than continuing to breathe something Stark owned._

_He sought his bed, and sleep took him unusually swiftly that night, his dreams carrying him far, far away, until he felt himself scarcely present within. There he seemed to find something other than the usual sadness, defeat, bitterness—instead, loneliness, and desire._

_Dreaming, he sent out his thoughts, seeking something that might fulfill him, then slid from the realm of dreams to something deeper, deeper, where sounds might be heard, touches be felt, yet not wholly remembered._

_And something found him there._

_When he awoke hours later, as first light crept into his suite from the still open window, there was an indescribably revolting substance smeared upon his chest. He could not hold back a sound of disgust as he wiped the sticky mess away with his hand, then quickly decamped to his bath for a proper scrubbing. By the time he had finished his morning Starbucks, fixed his customary breakfast, and sat down at his computer to grudgingly work on the extremely tedious project Stark had assigned him this week, he had forgotten the dream—and everything else around it—completely._

The scuttling outside increased as he turned on the light and moved toward the window. His subconscious recalled the clack of claws scrabbling for purchase against glass, from how his visitor had launched himself from a temporary perch atop the glass pane. The beak-rapping had been upon his door... and the brush of wing- and tail-feathers was against his chest.

“Even as a dream I could not believe it,” he murmured, amused, as he padded softly into his Project Room, “yet it appears the unfathomable reality has reappeared.”

Outside, up far too high for all but the bravest—or lost—birds to normally travel, flapped a pigeon, trying to scrabble his way in. He was not jet black as was Featherling, but still quite dark, with an occasional splash of white lacing those feathers like cream swirling through coffee.

Loki turned on the Project Room lights, and the bird’s claws finally found enough purchase along the infinitesimal ledge outside the window for him to cease his frenetic flapping. They matched gazes through the glass, each staring a challenge at the other.

Finally Loki raised one brow, crossed his arms over his chest, and asked in Allspeak, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

The bird replied in Pigeon. “Let me in, bro’. Please. I’m dyin’ out here.”

Loki easily switched languages, although he refused to emulate the dialect. “Are you indeed?” His smile was slow and delicious. “Then best I let you fall to Nature’s mercy than beneath my own.”

“Yeah, yeah, show no mercy,” the pigeon mocked. “I know you, and you’re no ice cream vendor, pal.”

“I beg your pardon?” Such disrespect from a mere mindless Midgardian beast took him aback.

A gust of wind scraped along the Tower’s exterior, loosening the pigeon’s precarious grip and momentarily sweeping him away. But, stubbornly, in a few seconds he was clawing at the glass yet again, wings beating madly and his irritation obvious. “Look, pal, are ya gonna let me in or not? We need to talk about somethin’.”

“And oh, how I wonder what it might be,” Loki said under his breath. He considered for a moment, then worked a smidge of magic to open a small portal through the glass. 

The bird swooped in and landed on the floor, pausing to catch his breath. Loki quickly sealed the passage behind him, keeping a wary eye on his midnight visitor, who had begun to pace before him in an agitated circle. He puffed out his proud chest, bowing and bobbing, then began to burble profane suggestions the likes of which were foreign even to Loki’s seasoned ears. 

Loki kicked out at him with his bare foot, landing only a glancing blow; still, it was enough to send the bird airborne and to relative safety, perching on the back of Loki’s work chair. “Such language!” Loki scolded, sweeping his arm to drive his visitor back down to the floor. “You are to stop with any further vulgarities in my presence, else I will not hear you. I have no intention of allowing you to…” Loki’s lip curled, “have your way with me again.”

“Fine, fine, can’t blame a guy for tryin’, can you? Besides, don’t forget, you were beggin’ for it at the time.”

Indeed, he had been, Loki thought with deep chagrin. Perhaps he needed to rethink his celibacy policy and… _ease_ himself with another from time to time, so as to not allow his inner yearnings to end up so out of his control in the future. 

“So.” He seated himself, almost regally, in his chair, as if he were holding court for his lesser subjects. “Introduce yourself, visitor.”

“Roscoe. From Jersey.” He bowed again, somehow still as disrespectfully as possible, then preened a wing pit before he finally added, “Pleased-ta meetcha. And you?”

“I am Loki of….” He caught himself just in time. “I am Loki.”

“So, Loki, I guess you’re kinda new out here? Nice guy like you, didn’t know where to look for a piece of—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. Dealing with this creature was making him edgy; still, he managed to maintain equanimity. “Why have you come? Our business, such as it was, is completed. You have no further reason to impose yourself upon my life.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Roscoe paced back and forth, somehow seeming contemplative. “Aint-cha forgettin’ somethin’? You an’ I had a kid together.”

Loki sniffed, raising his chin and looking away. “Do we? I scarcely count you as the father. Were you here to ease my pain when I brought the eggs forth? Or share in the sorrow when one child was lost in-shell? Or to assist with birthing and raising the one that did come forth? No. You had your way with me, and then you left.”

“Yeah.” Roscoe looked down and regarded his red toes before absently raising one foot to scratch at the side of his neck. “’Bout that. I’m not so good at stickin’ around. And I can’t promise I’ll ever be. Some of us, yeah,” and he lifted his head to give Loki a sidelong glance, “we’re just bad eggs.”

“Oh, please,” Loki groaned, rising, and he moved his hand to re-open the portal through the glass. “Out. Now. I will not tolerate your mocking of me, your pointless punning—”

“No. Wait.” Roscoe looked panicked. Loki backed down, closed off the glass again. “Word on the street is that we got a daughter. Feather something?”

“Featherling,” Loki nodded, expression contained.

“I wanna meet her, Loki.” If Roscoe had hands, he would be wringing them now. “I don’t deserve it, I know, but don’t you think she really deserves to know who her dad is?”

The words pierced him, whether or not they were meant to. He saw… _blue_ , felt a chill sweep through him; in his mind, welts and whorls rose upon his skin, marks of his first birthright denied him through the lies and deceit of the second.

Indeed, how would his life have been, had he known his true heritage in time for it to make a difference?

“Loki? Hey, pal, you okay?” Wings fluttering again, and Roscoe was on the worktable, about to hop onto Loki’s arm. 

He shook himself back to the moment with great difficulty. “I… yes. Yes, I am fine. Your request merited deep contemplation.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Roscoe agreed. “So whaddya say?”

“The choice,” and he cleared his throat, “will be my daughter’s. If you will excuse me for a minute.”

* * *

“But you told me I didn’t have a father.” Featherling, sleep now gone from her eyes, gazed up at her mama’s face from where Loki cupped her in his palms. “I don’t understand.”

Loki bowed his head in something approaching shame. “I was wrong to mislead you, daughter. I should have said I did not _know_ who your father was, not that you did not have one. He came and went well before your birth, and left so little impression upon me that I scarce recalled our encounter.”

“Came… and went? He didn’t stay with us? Why?” 

He was not sure what he read in her eyes: confusion, disappointment, curiosity—perhaps a pastiche of all three. He cleared his throat and went on. “I do not know, my darling child. But your father has introduced himself to me tonight, and now wishes to know you as well. Is that acceptable to you?” 

“As long as it’s okay with you, Mama.” She delicately preened a breast feather, still half-fluff, back into place, then shook her wings until her juvenile plumage lay straight and smooth.

He caught back a bitter laugh. “This has nothing to do with me, dear one. Your decision.”

She nodded then, and the expression in her eyes seemed suddenly so wise beyond her youth that a shiver of recognition rose along Loki’s spine. _There is such greatness within her, that she should evince it at a mere six weeks of age._

Roscoe was impatiently pacing the floor of the Project Room in ever-tighter circles, head bobbing with each pigeon-step, when Loki returned. “Finally! What took ya so long—hey, kiddo!” His red eyes seemed to widen as he finally spotted Featherling cradled in Loki’s arms. “Who’s my girl?” He launched himself into the air, wings pounding hard enough to blow the papers off Loki’s table, and approached his daughter as if Loki wasn’t even there.

Loki diverted him with the back of one hand. “Don’t be forward. You must give her time. This is all quite new to her.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you, pal—” Roscoe winged over his head, just out of reach. 

“Do not strain my patience, you scrofulous excuse for a—”

“Mama.” Featherling, watching it all with surprising equanimity in her eyes, finally interrupted. “Put me down, please?”

Loki shot back into the moment, and the purpose, at her words. “Yes. Yes, dear.” He bent low to let her flutter from his hand to the cool floor. Roscoe flew one last circuit of the Project Room, then swooped in for a spectacularly dramatic landing mere inches from where she stood. 

Featherling toed back two steps to place a bit more distance between herself and her father; Loki was relieved to see that his lessons to her about stranger-danger had apparently sunk in. 

Roscoe’s demeanor seemed to darken momentarily before he tried to beckon her back with a flick of a wing. “Aw, c’mon, kiddo, I’m your daddy. Come give us a kiss--”

“Daughter, you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to—”

“Mama, please.” And Loki silenced, and took a step back himself, and let them be.

“So.” Roscoe waited a moment, then, when she continued to stand her cautious ground instead of approaching him, sighed as he looked her up and down. “You’re a cute thing, you really are, even if you look a little too much like your baby-mama.” Roscoe side-eyed Loki, daring him to comment, but Loki resisted. “And… kinda quiet, aren’t you? It’s okay to talk to me. It’s not like I’d bite, right?” He spread his beak wide in a peculiar avian grin, but she was unmoved.

Roscoe chuckled uneasily into her unrelenting silence, then cleared his throat and went on. “Um, yeah, yer name. I wanna talk to ya ‘bout yer name. I don’t know what’s up with that. Talk about statin’ the obvious. You should have a good Jersey name. How ‘bout… Stacey? Whaddaya think about Stacey?” He took a step closer; she stepped back yet again, shaking her head.

Loki, tensing, leaned forward, wondering at the silence his normally loquacious daughter kept.

“Okay, fine, we’ll keep the name.” Roscoe’s irritation was starting to creep into his demeanor. “So is everything okay here?”

Another little nod; her eyes never left her father, watching him carefully as he edged from side to side, trying to approach more closely.

“Doncha get bored in a place like this? All closed in? It would drive me nuts. With only those rich crazy superheroes t’ hang out with? No other wings, no other beaks, plus havin’ to use people-talk all the time. Doncha want the real wind beneath yer wings, French fries to eat, rain puddles to splash in? An’ be around yer _real_ family that looks like you?”

Loki tensed, even as Featherling gave a tiny headshake at Roscoe’s rambles.

“Ya gotta give me somethin’ to go on, kid!” The bird seemed about to explode with anger. “Ya owe me. I came a long way to see ya tonight. All the wind and the dark and then I hadda beat myself bloody against the window to get _somebody’s_ attention, and after all that he gives me lip. And you don’t give me nothin’. What gives? Why did you come out anyway?”

She rose up on her tiny toes, tall and proud. “To tell you to go away.” With the dignity befitting a princess, back straight and head held high, she turned her back to Roscoe and departed.

For a moment he seemed speechless, before finally sputtering, “Hey! You! Don’t you dare turn your back on me, you spoiled brat. That’s rude!”

She stopped; she spun; she approached her angry father with the same measured pace with which she’d left him behind. Loki, watching her, scarcely dared to breathe, even as he wondered if he should intercede. No—she was handling this lesson life had thrown at her quite well; better than he would have, at an age relative to hers.

She halted before Roscoe, almost beak to beak with him. “’Rude’?” she asked, and there was something about her tone that made her blood father take his own step backward. “So is ‘came and went’!” And she thrust her beak at him, landing a glancing blow across his cere that left an angry pink line in its wake.

“You little snot!” And in an instant Roscoe was upon her, drilling his vicious beak against her skull, pulling out downy feathers from her head and drawing blood. She squealed and kicked and just managed to squirm from beneath him, her face twisted with shock and fear and something else. 

Loki, aghast, rushed forward, an invitation for Roscoe to launch himself into Loki’s face feet- first, scrabbling and kicking for all he was worth. Claws scratched dangerously close to Loki’s eyes, and he screwed them shut to prevent any damage. Hastily he conjured a repellant blast and blindly sent it out towards where he sensed Roscoe had beat his hasty retreat, and had the satisfaction of knowing from Roscoe’s strangled squawk that at least some of the energy had landed. He prepared a second strike—

\--but stopped himself short as he felt magic that was not his burst into being within the room. Hastily he brushed hair and feathers and a few blots of blood from his eyes to find his daughter. 

She stood still upon the floor where she had been attacked, blood smeared on the crown of her head and trickling onto her face, but her wings—those soft, short, downy wings—were glowing brightly with golden light. They gathered it in the same way as Loki gathered light and magic into his palms to work a spell, to defend, to attack, to, create, to heal. Instinctually she cast out her magic, catching Roscoe as he attempted his second strike and instead pinning him in place with her fledgling power. A golden tendril that was sparking like a live wire bloomed from within her breast feathers, and she sent it out next to coil it like a spring around her attacker. 

Roscoe struggled uselessly within those magical bonds, swearing a blue streak and calling both her and her mama every colorful name in his vocabulary. Loki’s laugh was cold as he bent into the bird’s field of vision. “Tell me, ‘pal’," he taunted, "do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth?”

“You son of a bitch—” the pigeon snarled. 

“Mama!” Featherling called out, and there was both a warning and request in that dear little voice

“Understood.” Loki could feel her power about to release, in three… two… one. And suddenly Roscoe rocketed from her grasp, thrown forth like a stone from a slingshot. Just in time, Loki managed to dissolve the window glass in Roscoe’s direct trajectory and the pigeon tumbled through the opening. He started to fall through the darkness, then with several mighty beats of his wings, he regained altitude and flapped away as quickly as he could into the night. 

The golden glow faded as quickly as it had come on; Featherling abruptly sank to the floor as it vanished. “I don’t think he’ll be back, Mama,” she managed as she tried to catch her breath. 

“Daughter,” he whispered, awestruck, catching her in his hands and holding her to his heart. Smiling, she nuzzled in close, and he brushed his lips to the crown of her head to heal her battle-wounds. “You have… you _are_ …”

_A sorcerer, a warrior, unlimited promise and power. Her mama’s daughter, and more._


End file.
